Admission Before Admission
by Owlieo
Summary: Beginning at the end of the Season 5 finale Both Sides Now , and tells the story of what happens to House, Wilson, Cuddy, and House's team after House goes to Mayfield Hospital.
1. Chapter 1

As she reached up to his face Cuddy's fingertips passed over House's carotid artery and she felt his pulse racing. His respirations were rapid, almost hyperventilation. He dropped his cane. He reached out and put his hand on her shoulder as much to confirm that she was really there as to steady himself. Her expression no longer held any hint of anger, only deep concern. He looked at her, but not at her. He closed his eyes. His breaths became jagged, "No," he drew in a shuddering breath, "I'm not OK." He was shaking. She thought he might collapse.

With his eyes still closed and her hand gently cradling the side of his face, he leaned towards her instinctively. Just as instinctively she reached around him in a comforting embrace. The back of his jacket was damp with perspiration. She could feel his heart frantically beating like a frightened bird trapped in a cage. Her caring gesture pushed him off the emotional ledge. The jagged breaths tore open into unhinged sobs.

The unusually open display of emotion and vulnerability from a man who was a master at masking what he truly felt sliced right through her, at least temporarily cutting out any remaining anger she felt for his frustratingly boorish behavior. She held onto him tightly, supporting his 6'2" frame as he struggled to regain control. Empathetic tears spilled down her face. He allowed himself the comfort of her hug. She softly spoke in a soothing tone, "House, hey, shh, tell me what's wrong." Concerned that he might pass out, she broke the embrace, stepped to his side with her arm around him and ushered him towards the sofa across the room.

Seated on the sofa he leaned forward and covered his face with his hands. He couldn't stop shaking. She grabbed the chenille throw from the back of the sofa and wrapped it around his shoulders. She sat next to him, rubbing his back in an effort to help him calm the shivering.

Someone knocked on her office door. "Not now." she called out.

"Dr. Cuddy, Dr. Foreman is looking for Dr. House..." a familiar voice said loudly from the other side of the door. Cuddy recognized the voice as one of the clinic nurses, Lois Montefiore, a particularly nosy woman who disliked House.

Cuddy wiped the tears from her own cheeks and went to the door. She opened it just slightly, and whispered in an almost hostile tone, "Tell Dr. Foreman that Dr. House is suspended." The nurse started to launch into a diatribe against House for his inappropriate announcement in the lobby, but Cuddy cut her off abruptly, "Lois, please inform Dr. Foreman that he can page me if he needs a consult for the patient." And then she promptly shut the door.

House was still in a state of stunned shock. He didn't notice the knocking or the nurse at the door. He didn't want to keep his eyes open for fear that he and Cuddy would no longer be alone in the room.

Cuddy returned to her seat next to him on the sofa, and was relieved that he was no longer violently shivering and his breathing had returned to a more normal pattern. He cleared his throat and sat back without bothering to wipe away the tears. Red-rimmed his eyes looked even more startlingly blue. He took a deep breath.

She leaned forward, her chin resting in her left hand. Her big grey eyes implored him to talk to her.

"I'm having hallucinations... and delusions apparently." he said it so quietly that she barely heard him, but it struck her like a sledge hammer. She reached out and took his hand, which he let her grasp without protesting or attempting to withdraw it. "I... I didn't know... about the delusions." he added haltingly. He glanced at her horrified and embarrassed.

She squeezed his hand reassuringly. "The Vicodin?"

He nodded. "So far nothing else fits."

"Wilson knows?"

House nodded. "...about the hallucinations."

She sighed deeply. "Let's go talk to Wilson. We'll help you decide what to do."

He nodded. At that moment he would have agreed to whatever she suggested. He was completely defenseless. She could have crushed him like a bug. And with everything he put her through, he probably deserved it.

Instead she squeezed his hand tighter and said earnestly, "You'll be OK." He swallowed hard against the knot in his throat. She released his hand, stood up and went back across the room to retrieve his cane.

Amber sat next to him on the sofa watching Cuddy pick up the cane. "You so do not deserve her. You do not deserve anyone."

Kutner sat in the chair next to the sofa and leaned forward towards House. Looking directly at Amber he said, "She is still such a b___. Don't listen to her. This is real. Lisa Cuddy loves you. Look at her."

"Ready?" Cuddy handed him his cane.

He nodded and stood up. He wobbled a bit unsteadily as he navigated around the coffee table and she quickly put her hand under his elbow to help him catch his balance.

Kutner stood in the office doorway. "See?" he smiled a sad, gentle smile. "She won't let you fall. She never has."

House looked back at Cuddy who returned the gaze with an encouraging almost-smile. Over her shoulder he saw Amber sulking on the sofa. He turned and hobbled towards Kutner.

"You're forgetting something..." Amber called in a taunting, sing-song voice from the center of Cuddy's office where she stood barefoot practically on top of his prescription bottle.

Cuddy moved around House and opened the door, holding it for him. He turned back to look at the bottle of hydrocodone on the floor. Her brow creased, but just as she was about to say something he turned and walked out of her office.

Cuddy walked ahead of House. With a determined, self-assured glare she silenced the few people who appeared to be about to speak to them as they walked towards the elevators. House followed her silently, looking down at his feet the whole time. This time he was not just afraid, he was terrified.

Inside the elevator, alone with Cuddy, House clutched his cane, leaned against it, and continued to look at his feet. His leg was beginning to throb. He winced against the pain and shifted his weight more heavily to the other leg.

In her peripheral vision she watched his slow dance with the pain. She knew that whatever agony he had just put her through was truly minor in comparison to what he was about to experience. She also knew that he was well aware of the particular agony involved in opioid withdrawal. It was clear that he was frightened and she thought maybe that was a good thing. Maybe this time he would let them help him.


	2. Chapter 2

Some conversations occur entirely without words. Sometimes words get in the way. The moment House followed Cuddy into Wilson's office Wilson knew that House's situation had clearly become much worse, and he knew what had to be done.

"Did you unpack that bag?" Wilson asked.

House shook his head. Cuddy was puzzled, but said nothing. "OK," Wilson said. "I'll make a call. I just need to write orders for a few patients. I'll be back." He strode out of the room with hasty purposefulness, closing the door behind himself to prevent curious passersby from seeing House.

"He knows someone, a guy he went to school with, director of a facility near Philadelphia." House answered the question she hadn't asked. He had to sit down. The pain in his leg was picking up tempo. He sat on the sofa. His stomach started to churn.

From his slightly ashen color and the perspiration that appeared like dew on his face she knew that he was beginning to experience withdrawal. His addiction was far worse than she thought. How could she have missed that it had gotten so out of hand? She opened the door and stepped out into the hallway just far enough to get Wilson's attention.

"We need to give him some Zofran, or if he doesn't throw up in your office he will throw up in your car." she whispered. "Can you grab some?"

"There should be some sample packs of Zofran ODT in my desk." Of course an oncologist would have samples of anti-emetic drugs, and, of course he was fine with giving some to House. He certainly did not want House to vomit on his Volvo floor mats.

"House, how are you feeling?" she asked closing Wilson's office door.

"How does it look like I am feeling?" he snarled through gritted teeth. Agitation... yet another symptom of withdrawal.

"Nausea?" she asked opening Wilson's desk drawers one after the other searching for the blister packs of Zofran.

"Yeah." he didn't have the energy to continue to be snarky, and the combination of the withdrawal and the anxiety about what he was about to do was really turning his stomach.

"Here," she said handing him a small white tablet. "Zofran."

He took it gratefully, but wished she had offered him something for the pain too. Watching him struggle not to let that pain show on his face was unbearable, but she knew it was best to leave his pain management to an addiction specialist. He started pressing into the gnarled muscles of his right thigh with the heel of his right hand.

Cuddy still felt guilty for having suggested the surgery that crippled his leg. If she hadn't mentioned it to Stacy at all he might have been fine. Of course, he also might have died, and with his death so many others whose only hope was his brilliant diagnostic mind would also have died. But was it fair to him, to live his life in agony for the sake of the other lives he would save? Then again, she sighed, wasn't it about time that she stopped kicking herself for that?

Wilson popped his head back into his office, "It's going to be a few minutes more, Taub just called for a stat consult in radiology."

House winced. That consult was for the clinic patient whose pancreatic cancer he should have recognized much sooner. Cuddy misread the wincing as an increase in his leg pain, and he was startled by her response. She sat down on the sofa next to him and slid her left hand under his right hand as he kneaded his thigh muscle, and began expertly pressing her smaller fingers into the knotted flesh along the uneven line of the scarred incision. When he gasped out of surprise she started to lift her hand, but he pressed it back down with his.

"Please, don't stop." he whispered. Most of the time House didn't want anyone else to see or touch his scar, but there were moments, mostly desperate moments, when it was a relief. He continued to rest his hand on top of hers, guiding her movements to the places along the scar that once pressed and released alleviated the most pain. He could have sat there for hours, eyes closed, letting her touch his leg, and everywhere else for that matter, but he knew that Wilson would soon return and he would have to go home, get his suitcase and go to Pennsylvania.

He curled his fingers around her hand and squeezed, stopping her kneading motions. The sudden knot in his throat kept him from thanking her, which is what he really wanted to do. But, she saw the gratitude in his expression and the tears starting to fill his eyes before he looked away.

She didn't say anything, just nodded and smiled almost apologetically as she stood up and walked over to look out the glass door to Wilson's balcony. Some things did not need to be said.

Sitting in Wilson's desk chair, Kutner nodded and smiled. Amber sat on the corner of the desk rolling her eyes. House was relieved that neither of them seemed to have anything to say just then, because he was in no mood for arguments with hallucinations, parts of himself or otherwise.

Wilson returned trying to hide a somewhat grim expression. House knew then that he was right about the patient's pancreatic cancer. He felt guilty.

"That's what you will feel like all the time. Every time one of your decisions hurts someone, increases someone's pain, ruins someone's relationship..." Amber gloated. House glared at her.

Wilson and Cuddy both looked at the empty desk at which House was glaring and then quickly at each other. They really needed to get him into treatment.

Kutner sat cross-legged on the floor next to the sofa and said in a hushed tone, "It will be better for you to acknowledge that you feel something than to continue to pretend that you don't feel anything at all." House glared at him too. He didn't like being analyzed by a dead guy/part of his own subconscious any more than he liked being taunted by a dead girl/part of his own subconscious.

Wilson pursed his lips and nodded towards the door. "Everything is all set. We can leave now, stop at your apartment to get your bag, and you'll be able to check in as soon as we get there."

House could feel the panic rising in his chest. Maybe he could still get out of this somehow? But, then he looked at Amber and Kutner whom he knew were only there in his mind. He thought about the ease with which he had fallen for his delusional mind's fictitious, fantastic reality. He really was not OK. And he looked at Cuddy and Wilson with their concerned expressions and remembered that these two people more than anyone else actually cared about him and they were trying to save his life. He pulled himself up on his cane.

Cuddy took another Zofran blister pack from Wilson's desk and handed it to House. Wilson pursed his lips and looked down. He knew he was about to witness an intimate moment between two people who clearly, for inexplicable reasons, just could not acknowledge their true feelings for each other.

Wilson was surprised that it was House who made the first move to embrace her after he took the medication from her. He wrapped his lanky arms around her tiny frame, and she simultaneously returned the gesture in kind. It was a quick, but heartfelt gesture. Upon breaking away from House Cuddy promptly embraced Wilson too, a sign of affectionate solidarity.

"Drive carefully." she said. Wilson nodded and smiled somewhat gravely.

The three doctors walked out of Wilson's office together, Wilson and Cuddy on either side of House whose pain caused him to move more slowly. Instead of accompanying House and Wilson to the elevators Cuddy feigned a need to use the restroom. The truth was she didn't want House to see her cry for him, and she was dangerously close.

Wilson and House rode the elevator to the lobby in silence. When the doors opened he looked out at the busy lobby, memorizing the scene. He wondered if he would ever see it again.


	3. Chapter 3

House was emotionally exhausted, and in pain. The saving grace on the ride had been the Zofran, which kept him from retching on the light beige floor mats in Wilson's nearly new Volvo. It took every bit of energy he had left to carry his suitcase up the front steps of the psychiatric hospital. As he was escorted into the building House turned and looked back out the door, relieved to see Wilson still standing next to the car. Wilson saw the haunted fear in his friend's eyes. He smiled slightly, but reassuringly at House and hoped that House was going to be OK there.

Inside the facility an orderly took his suitcase and handed House a soft, pale blue hospital gown and robe with MAYFIELD printed on them in black ink. Two members of the hospital staff had opened his suitcase and were thoroughly searching every nook and cranny, pocket and container for contraband drugs. House stood by holding the institutional garments looking confused.

The slim blonde woman who followed them into the lobby saw his expression and explained, "Dr. House, I'm Dr. Andersdotter, all detox patients wear gowns and robes. You will get your own clothes and personal items back as soon as you move to the rehab ward. I'll be supervising your detox process. Because you have a co-existing health condition that requires pain management we will not be using any opioid receptor antagonist drugs, naltrexone for example, as that would prevent us from using other opioids to treat your pain. I just want you to know that, because some of our patients are very concerned that we will not take their pain management into consideration. Please be assured that our goal is to help you recover from your addiction, but that doesn't mean our goal is to make you go cold-turkey on pain control. Now, I'd like to show you to your room and have you sign some paperwork. How are you feeling?"

House blinked. He leaned on his cane. Other than utterly exhausted he wasn't sure how he felt. He was at a loss for words.

"I know it's overwhelming, but I need to know how you are physically feeling right now, because if you are in withdrawal we do want to monitor and, if possible, manage your symptoms." Her look was earnest and direct.

He was almost catatonic. It was as if he had entirely folded up within himself. He felt mute and emotionally numb, but his leg was throbbing. After blinking a few times he managed to mumble that his leg hurt.

"OK, can you give me a number on the pain scale."

House looked at her in disbelief. They were asking a detoxing Vicodin addicted doctor in opioid withdrawal who had a history of drug-seeking for a number on the pain scale? "Seven."

"OK, when was the last time you took any pain medication, including any OTC pain medication?"

House wasn't sure what time it was and he had given Wilson his watch. He really had no idea when the last time he took any Vicodin was, because of the delusions. Up until reality came crashing down on him in Cuddy's office he thought he had already gone through detox and was drug free. "I... I don't know."

"Well, let's go to your room, OK?"

House nodded and followed her. She was having a really hard time believing the notes in his file. So far he was one of the least belligerent and most compliant intake patients she had seen in a long time, especially for a doctor. They were usually seriously problematic as patients.

They walked down the long, wide central hallway of the Victorian era hospital building. She observed that he used his cane on the "wrong" side and that he leaned rather heavily into it. His thin case file did not contain any explanation of the leg injury.

Halfway down the long hallway there was a central intersection and she motioned to the windowless double doors to the left. "This is the detox ward. It is a locked ward. All detox patients have private rooms where they are closely monitored by medical personnel. The other wards are homier than detox, but it's not unfriendly." She waved a magnetic PROX card in front of the sensor by the door and the locks released. She pressed the crash bar on the door and held it open for him. "Go ahead. Your room is the..." she glanced at the top sheet on his file, "fifth door on the right."

The room was sparsely furnished like an ordinary hospital room with a standard hospital bed to the right in the center of the room, a tray table and two side chairs. There was a TV mounted on a bracket on the wall opposite the foot of the bed. The room had pale blue walls, the same shade of blue as the gown and robe. Dr. Andersdotter motioned towards the second door in the room. "You have a private bathroom with a shower stall, sink and toilet. Before I leave you you will have to change into your gown and robe and give me your clothing." House nodded. "OK, now, we do not generally address our patients by their titles. Every patient in here is equal and we do not want outside cultural or social norms to affect how patients are perceived or treated by the other patients. Therefore, as of this moment I will not be referring to you as Dr. House. Do you prefer Gregory or Greg?"

"Oh you have to be kidding." Amber laughed as she leaned against the wall near the single window opposite the door. House closed his eyes. He hoped when he opened them she would be gone, but he knew it was doubtful.

Dr. Andersdotter followed where he had been gazing before he closed his eyes, but asked again, "Greg or Gregory?"

"House." he said without opening his eyes. "Only my mother calls me Gregory."

"We really prefer to use our patients' given names or nicknames rather than their surnames."

He opened his eyes and saw Amber standing behind Andersdotter shaking her finger mockingly. House smiled. Though she was often annoying she was sometimes amusing, or at least as amusing as a hallucination can be.

Elin Andersdotter took one look at the smirk on her patient's face and knew he wasn't looking at her. She also knew that he had admitted to having had hallucinations, almost certainly caused by the extremely high levels of hydrocodone in his system. "House, are we alone in this room?" She decided not to argue with him about the name issue. Clearly there were bigger problems.

"Technically yes," he said flatly.

"OK, do you see anyone here who is not technically here?"

He sighed. "Yes. My friend's dead girlfriend, the Cutthroat B_____. I mean Amber."

"OK, well, that's good to know." She seemed relatively unphased by this admission and simply made a note in his chart. "Why don't we just have a seat over here and you can sign these forms and get things started."


	4. Chapter 4

By the time House finished signing a number of consent forms, HIPPA forms, and "I have read the rules and regulations forms" his leg was throbbing in a rapid cadence. He absentmindedly reached down and rubbed his thigh.

Andersdotter asked him to rate his pain level and when he said "Eight." she actually thought he was underestimating it based on her observation that he was breathing through his gritted teeth some of the time among other things.

"So, here's what we are going to do," she began, "you are going to change out of your street clothes and into your gown and robe. You have to stay in this room unless accompanied by a member of staff. A nurse is going to come in here and put in an IV. We'll probably give you some IV saline and a little dextrose, because you will probably not feel much like eating or drinking. We will monitor your symptoms and provide appropriate medication to manage them if necessary. When we are certain that you do not have any Vicodin in your system we will give you methadone to help manage your pain. I know that you are in pain now, and we will try to help you manage the pain with non-drug methods until we can give you something. I know that you have taken methadone before and experienced some respiratory depression. We will have you on pulse-oxymetry and you will be checked on frequently by nursing staff. Once you have completed detox and have started an appropriate pain management regimen we will move you to a rehab ward. Do you have any questions?"

House shook his head. All of his bones and muscles were beginning to hurt as much as his leg hurt every day. He started to shiver as much from the pain as from the chills that suddenly hit him.

"House, you need to change into your gown and robe. Can you do that by yourself?" She really didn't want to have to call someone to help her undress him. He scowled at her, which she interpreted correctly as a yes, and was actually glad to see that there was a spark of attitude in there. He was in pain and felt sick, but he was not a complete invalid. Or so he thought.

He was glad that the bathroom was handicap equipped, because the numerous grab-bars came in particularly handy for a person who was having trouble with balance. He leaned his cane against the wall, removed his shirt and t-shirt and looked at himself in the mirror as he leaned against the sink. He still looked ashen, which made his eyes look even more startlingly blue.

He knew he wouldn't be able to take off his shoes while standing and was grateful that there was a shower chair. He sat and unlaced his Nikes, kicking them off into the corner where his shirts lay in a rumpled pile. He rolled each sock off and tossed it onto the pile too. Without thinking he stood to drop his khakis and toppled over knocking the shower chair into the wall with a loud crash.

"House?" Andersdotter called loudly as she opened the door. D___! Did this woman not know anything about privacy? House worked to orient himself in the room before he tried to get up. The cold floor actually felt good against his bare back.

She found her patient laying in the middle of the tiled floor with his khaki pants around his ankles, a rather undignified position for someone like him she realized. She reached down to offer him a hand, and noticed the scar on his right thigh. From the appearance it seemed that a rather large portion of the quadriceps on that leg had been removed. She couldn't imagine why amputation wasn't deemed a better choice for the injury, whatever it was, because this choice obviously and logically left him with more mobility issues and pain than a prosthetic limb would have.

"Seen enough?" he asked in a hostile tone as he struggled to get up without taking her hand. It wouldn't have been a problem if he didn't feel so dizzy.

"I'm sorry. I just wanted to make sure you were not injured by falling in here. How did that happen?" She thought she might as well ask.

"Infarction following an aneurysm that ruptured, neither of which was diagnosed until, obviously, it was too late." He didn't have the energy to come up with anything sarcastic in response to the inquiry, and at least she hadn't pretended not to have seen it. He kind of liked her directness in spite of himself.

"I see," she responded, "You know, you'd probably be able to get up more quickly if you let me help you." She extended her hand again.

He was too tired keep trying to do everything on his own. He reached up and grasped her arm. He was surprised when she braced herself and gave him a hefty tug. She was a strong for a woman with such fine bone structure. Had he been completely in his right mind he would have made an inappropriate remark to throw her off, but standing up made him very light-headed.

"Woah there." She continued to hold onto his arm. She didn't want him to pass out and hit his head. She gently pushed him towards the grab-bar along the wall. "Hold on there," she directed. Behind them a short, heavy-set woman with dark, straight hair appeared in the doorway.

"Hey, Jeanette, can you grab the gown and robe?" Dr. Andersdotter wasted no time. House didn't put up a fight. He let her slip the gown over his arms and stood by compliantly as the nurse tied the back and gently slipped the robe over his shoulders. "House, you can step out of those," she instructed. She thought it would be easier for him to give up the khakis if the leg was covered, and she was right.

"Think you can make it to the bed?" Andersdotter asked and handed him his cane. He certainly wasn't going to let them carry him. He wobbled out to the bed, thankful that it was close to the bathroom door.

"I'll be back in a few minutes." Andersdotter took House's clothes and left.

House saw the sealed plastic bag with the IV setup on the tray table and the plump bag of IV fluid already suspended from the silver pole. "I'm going to be your nurse tonight. I'll be checking on you frequently. Right now I'm going to put in an IV. I know I don't need to explain the process to you," she said in a professional, almost collegial, tone. That was Jeanette's way of acknowledging that he was a doctor. Over the years she found that most doctors did not like to have certain things explained to them.

Jeanette put on her gloves and asked House if he had any preference for where she placed the IV. He shook his head. She wrapped the tourniquet around his left arm, which she chose because she thought it would be easier for him since he used his cane on the right side. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the pillows, hoping that the room would stop spinning. She was efficient, but gentle. He noticed that she smelled like Ivory soap. He felt only a quick pinch and then her hands smoothing the Tegaderm dressing over the gauze holding the IV catheter in place. "There," she said satisfied with her work. She was usually assigned to the patients who were medical professionals, because of her calm, unflappable demeanor and her excellent nursing skills. 20 years of experience meant she could place an IV on the first try every time with minimal discomfort. "Can I get you anything? Water? We have ginger ale, cola, jello, tea...?"

House realized then that he hadn't eaten or had a drink since... he wasn't even sure when. His mouth was dry. "Water."

"OK, I'll be right back." She left the room on nearly silent, crepe soled shoes.

Amber settled herself on the foot of the bed. "Cat got your tongue?"

"I'm not talking to you. Go away." House closed his eyes.

"You know, since I am actually inside your head closing your eyes will not make me disappear." She twirled a clump of her straight blonde hair around her fingers. "It won't make him disappear either." She motioned across the room to the side chairs where Kutner sat silently observing House.

"It's just the Vicodin." Kutner said in a reassuring tone. "We're only here, because you took waaaaaaay too much."

"Well, that's only partly true." Amber corrected. "We, in particular, are here, because he feels guilty."

"Stop!" House shouted just as Jeanette returned to the room. Great, now the nurse was going to think he was insane.

"Technically," said Amber smiling like the Cheshire Cat, "you are."

"Experiencing hallucinations?" Jeanette asked calmly. She placed the blue plastic pitcher full of ice water and the matching cup on the tray table next to the bed. He ignored her and looked out the window. It was dark outside. He wondered how long he had been there already. "Dr. House, you are not the first patient here to have hallucinations." She called him Dr. House. He looked at her cherubic, round face.

"Oh, yes, I sometimes use my patients' titles when the docs and administrators are not present. I mean, I don't know you personally, so using your given name seems too artificially personal to me." She was honest. House liked that. "How's the pain?" she asked, noting that he was clutching the blue woven cotton blanket tightly in both fists and that perspiration had dampened his graying hair.

"Eight." he offered. He was going to tough it out as long as he could to prove to himself that he could do it. She looked at him skeptically, but continued with measuring his vital signs.

The door opened and tall, blonde Dr. Andersdotter returned to the room. She smiled, but it was reflexive and professional. "BP?" she asked Jeanette, who promptly showed Andersdotter her notes in the chart. "Your blood pressure is a little high. That is not uncommon in withdrawal from opiates. We're going to give you some clonidine, which can also be mildly sedative. It says in your admission notes that you have been experiencing insomnia, so that might not be such a bad thing."

House responded dryly, "Clonidine can also cause insomnia."

"Yes," she said, "but only occasionally. If it becomes a problem we will stop giving it to you." She handed him the pill, poured ice water into the plastic cup and gave it to him. "It can also cause hypotension, so please be very careful if you try to get out of bed. You do have a call button." She motioned to the call button attached to the bed rail. "Do you have any questions?" He shook his head.

"If you think of anything Jeanette can reach me at any time. I'm here over night tonight. Try to get some sleep. You're going to need it. I doubt that you need to be told that this is going to get worse before it gets better."

The nurse and doctor exited the room, turning out the lights on their way out. It was better to detox in the dark. House closed his eyes. The one good thing about the agony of withdrawal was that his leg actually hurt marginally less than the rest of his body. He shifted in the bed in a futile attempt to get comfortable. Miraculously the clonidine did make him relax. Despite the rising pain he drifted off to sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

House slept fitfully. His withdrawal-addled dreams were a vivid replay of the delusional reality of the previous few days. Experiencing detox in a dream while detoxing was only therapeutic due to Cuddy's presence in the dream. Just as they began their passionate romp through his apartment the dream veered away from the delusional plotline. As he supported himself on a bookcase, while kissing her deeply feeling the exhilaration of her hands moving from his shoulders to his chest as she unbuttoned his shirt, the bookcase fell over. House managed to turn as it began to topple and pushed Cuddy out of the way, but he was knocked to the floor. His right leg was crushed under the weight of hundreds of books and a heavy wooden shelving unit. The pain was intense. It was so intense that he startled awake, drenched in sweat.

The remaining quadriceps in his right leg was spasmed so tightly he could not move his the leg at all. The leg pain was now elevated far above the pain everywhere else caused by the withdrawal. House sucked in a deep breath bit his lip and pounded his fists against the mattress in a valiant attempt not to scream. Just then a tidal wave of nausea crashed over him. In that state of agony he was incapable of suppressing the inevitable and before he could even reach the call button he started vomiting. After making a thorough mess of himself and the bed, he frantically pushed the call button as he strangled attempting to catch his breath between the violent surges.

Jeanette, the cherubic nurse, rushed into the room. In the dim light from the hallway behind her she could see him writhing on the bed; the sound and the acidic odor clearly indicated what had happened. She didn't want to turn on the lights, because that sometimes made things a lot worse. "I'm going to open the bathroom door to give myself some light. I'm right here. I'll be right with you." In the bathroom she ran lukewarm water onto a white facecloth, wrung it mostly dry over the sink and grabbed an emesis basin from the bathroom closet. She hurried to her patient.

"Kind of... late for... that." he panted between dry heaves as she offered him the basin. Despite the sarcasm she could see even in the dark that behind the wild eyes he was sorry for the mess.

"I know. It happens," she said without a hint of pity or resentment either. She wiped his face with the cloth. "I'm going to get you some IV Zofran." She started to leave and he grabbed her arm. He looked panicky. The violent heaving and strangling had that effect on a lot of people. "Shhhh," she said soothingly, stepping closer while loosening his grip on her arm and squeezing his hand between her hands, "I will be right back. I'll get someone to bring you some clean sheets and clothes too. I won't be gone long, I promise."

The cramped leg made it impossible for him to move and every time he tried the pain exacerbated the nausea and sent him into another fit of retching. He gave up on trying to move and instead concentrated on staying absolutely still, which was also extremely difficult with that much pain. He wanted to draw his legs up to his chest to alleviate the stomach cramps, but that was not possible. He longed for the relative ease of the detox in his dream/delusion.

"She'd be with you if she could," Kutner whispered. He stood by the side of the bed in his white coat.

House felt pathetic for being comforted by the words of the hallucinatory ghost of a suicidal employee. He closed his eyes. Tears rolled silently from under his closed eyelids into his ears as he lay perfectly still. At least no one would notice the tears on the pillowcase since it was already soaked with perspiration and puke.

The nurse kept her promise of a prompt return. She immediately administered the IV Zofran and then she and her younger, thinner colleague prepared to get him cleaned up. The younger nurse, Maria, filled a large basin with warm water and set it on the tray table along with a thick, fluffy towel and another white facecloth. "Dr. House," Jeanette said softly, "I know you're in pain, but I think you will feel better if Maria and I get you cleaned up and in a clean gown on clean bed linens. That means we have to move you, though, and I don't want to hurt you more, so you have to help us. Can you do that?"

House opened his eyes and nodded. The IV Zofran worked fast. The tidal wave of nausea had disappeared and he was left with only the bone jarring pain. "Muscle spasm," he managed to whisper looking down at his right leg.

"Before we move you at all I'm going to have Dr. Andersdotter examine your leg then. We might be able to give you something for the muscle spasm." He was starting to shiver mostly, he thought, from being uncovered while drenched with perspiration. "Maria, please go page Dr. Andersdotter and bring back a heated blanket." The younger nurse nodded and scurried out of the room.

Jeanette dropped the facecloth into the basin and twisted out the excess water. She wiped his face and hands with the gentleness a mother would use on her own child. This, in addition to her baby-face and cherubic roundness, was why Jeanette was often referred to as an angel by some of her patients. She did not judge them for whatever vices might have brought them to this place. To her pain was pain and she felt that no one deserved such agony, regardless of their complicity in arriving at this destination. Her personal goal was to make this hell just a little bit easier for them through nothing other than the way she went about the work she had to do anyway.

Maria returned with a warm blanket, which she handed to Jeanette who unfolded it and spread it over House without causing a draft to increase the chill. Maria stood by gloved and ready to proceed. She had her own patients, but they were both sleeping soundly. One was scheduled to move to the rehab the next day, and the other was a methadone addict. It would be a number of days before the methadone addicted patient even started withdrawal due to methadone's lengthy half-life. She was happy to help Jeanette. Jeanette usually got the "interesting" patients, doctors or local celebrities, people with complex co-existing conditions or those who were known to be particularly challenging.

Elin Andersdotter, who had been sleeping in the doctor's call room on the second floor, pulled her tangled blonde curls into a ponytail and shoved her feet into the Crocs she wore when she was on night duty. She rushed down to the detox unit to check on their newest patient who was beginning to live up to the expectation that he'd be a challenge.

When she entered the room she saw both nurses standing by the bedside, the pile of dirty bedclothes and the patient with his face contorted in pain shivering rather noticeably despite what she knew was a heated blanket covering him. "House," she said as she approached. "I'm told that you are having muscle spasms." His teeth were chattering, but he managed a hissed yes.

She moved the blanket away from his right leg and placed her hand on his knee. She thought it was best to start well below the damaged part of the quadriceps to let him adjust to her touch. She observed him brace for what he suspected would be a very painful exam, but she didn't have to get anywhere near the scar to feel that the muscle was completely rigid. And just her light touch at the distal end of the muscle practically had him climbing the wall, though he quite stoically said nothing.

"OK, House, I'm going to prescribe a little diazepam for the muscle spasm. We will monitor you carefully for CNS depression since you already had a dose of clonidine earlier." She wrote the order on his chart and left. Maria offered to go get the diazepam and followed Andersdotter out of the room.

"For someone... who's supposed to be... getting off drugs.... I sure... am getting... a lot of drugs," he said haltingly through his chattering teeth.

"Yes, well," Jeanette responded looking him in the eyes, "complex case." She smiled at him. He managed a gasped almost-laugh.

Maria brought back the muscle relaxant and two more heated blankets. The drug was administered via IV and was, as expected, rapidly effective. The muscle spasm immediately began to subside and the shaking, which clearly was at least partly from anxiety, slowed too. The two nurses worked quickly and carefully to remove the soiled sheets, undress him, clean him up, put the clean sheets and warm blankets on the bed and get him carefully into a clean gown. By the time they finished House was sleepy and calm.

"Need anything else?" Jeanette whispered to her patient. His drooping eyelids fluttered open and he shook his head. "Just press the call button if you need me," she said, but he was already sound asleep.


	6. Chapter 6

Forty-five miles away in Princeton, New Jersey, Lisa Cuddy sat in the rocking chair in Rachel's room, rocking and watching her daughter sleep in the crib since she could not sleep herself. She had tried. She had lain awake in her bed for several hours, tossing and turning. She decided she'd feel better watching Rachel sleep, so at 2:00am she tip-toed into the nursery and settled into the rocker. It was 4:00am and Cuddy's alarm clock would be going off in an hour and a half. She wondered how House was doing in detox.

She had almost forgiven him for his unbelievably inappropriate outburst from the balcony over the hospital lobby. Clearly it was a direct result of some sort of delusion. Cuddy intentionally tried not to think about what his announcement implied had happened in the delusion. Fortunately his reputation as a rapscallion and their constant and often public battles over his clinic duty meant that no one in the hospital, except for maybe James Wilson, would believe that such a thing was even a possibility.

She sighed and rubbed her eyes. House was the most infuriating person she had ever known. That fact about him had not changed in all of the years that she had known him. She knew he would be infuriating when she hired him, but she also knew that he was a brilliant physician. He was a brilliant med student when she first met him at U Mich, and he had rapidly become one of the most skilled physicians she had ever known, probably would ever know. His diagnostic abilities were ingenious. But, more than one person questioned her judgment when she decided to offer him the position at Princeton-Plainsboro. He was certainly... unconventional as far as doctors go.

He was also the embodiment of the Byronic Hero: perceptive, sophisticated, charismatic, attractive, introspective, moody and dangerous. He was the dark, brooding, intelligent, troubled bad boy all grown up. And like all Byronic Heroes and bad boys he was certainly in need of salvation. Is that what drew her to him? Or was it purely the tall, muscular frame and those amazingly blue eyes? Maybe it was a little bit of both. He certainly made her knees weak when he kissed her that awful night when she lost Joy.

The thought of the baby she lost made her look at the baby she now had. In a way it was House who made it possible for her to have Rachel, despite his insults, protests and generally juvenile behavior about her decision to adopt. The baby stirred in her crib, so Cuddy stood up and leaned over the crib. Rachel's big blue eyes fluttered open and she smiled a sleepy, toothless grin at her mother.

"There's my girl." Cuddy cooed picking her up. "Good morning, sweet one. Good morning," she said in a maternal sing-song voice as she danced the baby around the nursery, which resulted in peals of infant giggles.

Cuddy fed Rachel, bathed her and dressed her for the day. She strapped the baby in her bouncy seat on the floor in her bathroom while she showered and dressed for work. When she stepped out of the shower she smiled at Rachel who was alternately sucking on and then staring intently at her own fingers. Cuddy looked up and caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror. She would be able hide the dark circles under eyes with a bit of skillful makeup application, but she doubted there was anything she could do about the puffiness caused by too much crying the day before.

Rachel's nanny, Amelia, arrived at 7:30am, which gave Cuddy plenty of time to get to PPTH by 8:00am. It was only a 10 minute drive to the hospital. Amelia carried Rachel to the front door of the house and waved saying, "Bye-bye, Mommy, have a good day!" Amelia had an undergraduate degree in early childhood education and was working on her Master's degree at night. She had impeccable references and, more importantly, Rachel was very happy with her. Cuddy learned that, as a mother working outside of the home, one of the most important ways to ensure that she was able to concentrate on her job when she was at work was to know for certain that her child was in the care of someone trustworthy and capable.

Eric Foreman was waiting outside Cuddy's office when she arrived at the hospital. She expected that he would be, but she hoped that he'd at least have waited until she had time to finish her coffee. She certainly needed the caffeine. She put on her "annoyed, hurried administrator" face.

"Where is..." Foreman started.

"House is suspended from duty," she interrupted him curtly. "I am sure that Lois Montefiore told you about that just before she relayed the entire story about how House announced that he slept with me to the entire lobby." She gave him a steely look daring him to press her further. As she anticipated he would, he backed down. "Consider yourself in charge of diagnostics." She unlocked her office door and stepped inside. He followed her.

"How long?" Foreman had done this before, filled in for House as the department head. Of course, House seemed like he had seriously gone all the way off the deep end this time. Foreman wondered if he'd ever be back.

Cuddy sighed. "I don't know. Until further notice. Let me know if you need anything." She seemed exasperated.

Foreman nodded, left Cuddy's office and headed to the elevators. Something wasn't quite right about this situation. On his way past the reception area he overheard a nurse say that Cuddy fired House. So, how did House go from being fired to being suspended? Either House had something on Cuddy or... Cuddy was protecting House. He didn't really have time to think about it. Besides, that wouldn't really be new news, would it? He needed to get upstairs and tell Remy and Taub that they'd be on their own for a while. And yet another reason for Foreman not to make a big deal out of House's absence: Cuddy might remember that he and Remy Hadley were involved and reassign one of them to another department.

Cuddy was checking her email when Wilson knocked on the door. "Hey..." he said.

She was relieved to see him. "Come in." He closed the door behind himself. Before he even sat down she asked, "How did the trip go?"

Wilson sighed. "It was a quiet ride. What did he tell you before you came to my office?"

She pursed her lips and closed her eyes. "It's not just hallucinations. He was experiencing delusions. That's apparently..." she raised her eyebrows. She thought Wilson would be able to connect the dots.

"Oh," Wilson responded, "Ohhhh," he added wide-eyed when he realized exactly what that meant. "Oh my God. He thought... And, then I thought... But, he said... Oh." He paused, "Wow."

"OK, Wilson. Not helping." She smiled, though.

"Sorry. Well, then it was much worse than I thought."

"Do you think it's just the Vicodin?" she asked.

"His levels were ridiculously high. I don't think he was actually monitoring how much he was taking and it was way out of hand."

She wasn't sure she should ask, but because she suspected that Wilson knew she went ahead, "Who is he seeing in the hallucinations?"

Wilson licked his lips and clenched his jaw. He knew the answer would definitely make her think the problem was not just the drugs, because it made him think it was not just the drugs. "Amber," his voice broke. He hadn't expected that it would be hard to say her name then. He cleared his throat. "He sees Amber. And, at one point he said Kutner too, but I'm not sure if that was just a cover, because he didn't want me to know, you know."

"James, I'm sorry." It was close to the one year anniversary of Amber's death. This had to be particularly painful for Wilson. He gave her a lopsided, sad, thankful smile and nodded.

Wilson changed the subject, "Have you told his team?"

"Foreman was waiting outside my office when I got here. I told him House was suspended, and put him in charge until further notice." She rubbed her eyes. "He isn't House, but he is capable."

"Foreman," Wilson said leaning forward in the chair, "likes to think he is too much like House and doesn't want to be."

"Yes, I am aware. He shouldn't worry about it. He is good, but he isn't House, good or bad."

"Well," Wilson countered, "he's a little more like House than one might think." Wilson recalled Foreman's involvement in Remy Hadley's participation in the Huntington's trial. If that wasn't a Houseian romantic move, nothing was. Of course, House wouldn't have fumbled so badly.

Cuddy countered, "Kutner was more like House."

Wilson nodded solemnly. They both sighed. And that was likely a big part of House's recent decline.


	7. Chapter 7

Up on the fourth floor of the hospital Foreman sat at the head of the glass table in the diagnostics conference room. He had just informed Remy Hadley and Chris Taub that House was suspended, at least according to Cuddy, and that he would be leading the department.

"Suspended?" Taub asked.

"Apparently," Foreman said smugly, "it's not a good idea to claim you slept with your boss by shouting it from the rooftops."

Hadley narrowed her eyes, "While you were downstairs talking to Cuddy I heard he was fired."

"Yeah," Foreman responded, "something's definitely suspicious about this. But, if we start snooping around now Cuddy will notice, and reassign us to other departments until House returns."

Taub really was not interested in snooping around after House, suspended, fired or otherwise. "Do we have a case?" he asked.

"As it happens..." Foreman tossed copies of a case file to Taub and Hadley. "Patient is a 14 year old female. She started having severe, chronic headaches about a year ago..." Foreman grabbed a marker and started writing as he spoke, "Three months ago she developed vertigo, balance problems and neck pain."

"Sounds like a teenage girl with hormone-sensitive migraine headaches and an inner ear infection." Taub offered dryly.

"Sure, blame it on her hormones. Do you think we'd have her case file if that was all it is?" Hadley responded rolling her eyes.

"Guys, read the file." Foreman scolded.

Taub and Hadley buried their noses in the case file of Tessa Matthews.

Foreman asked Hadley to talk to the patient. He thought maybe the girl might be more comfortable with her than with him or Taub.

Remy Hadley happily obliged. She was actually relieved to have a patient to diagnose and treat, and not having to worry about what House might say or do in the process was a bonus.

Tessa Matthews was of average height and weight for her age. She had wavy, mousy-brown hair, luminous green eyes, and pale skin. When Hadley entered the room she was busily texting her friends on her cell phone.

"Hi, Tessa, I'm Dr. Hadley," she introduced herself. "I need to ask you some questions."

"'Sec." Tessa responded as her fingers flew over the phone keys, and then immediately followed with, "'K," as she looked up at the doctor.

Hadley asked the girl numerous questions about the headaches, her menstrual cycles, the types of activities she participated in at school, what her family life was like, what her school life was like, and so on. Hadley was very thorough, and Tessa was certainly not shy. She gave particularly thorough answers to the questions about her various extracurricular activities, and social life. Hadley wondered when the girl had time for her homework.

"So, that about does it as far as questions go for now," Hadley looked at her watch. She had been with Tessa for two hours.

"Wow," Tessa said, "That was more questions than my doctor ever asked me."

Hadley smiled. "We have to ask a lot of questions. Your answers will help us figure out what's causing your headaches, and dizziness."

Tessa nodded. "My Mom's just worried about it, because nobody else in our family has migraines. There's a first time for everything, right?"

"Right," Hadley answered, "but, it's always good to be certain what a problem is to make sure that a person is getting the right treatment."

"Uh-huh," Tessa was fixated on her phone again.

Hadley got up to leave. "I'll be back later, Tessa."

"'K," she responded without looking up.

Hadley shook her head and left their patient happily corresponding with her friends. She went back to the diagnostics conference room. Taub was sitting at the table by himself. "Where's Foreman?" he asked.

"How should I know? I've been with the patient." Hadley was getting tired of Taub's incessant remarks about her relationship with Foreman.

Taub responded without looking up from the journal article he was reading, "It was a simple question. Nothing implied in the asking. I just thought you might know where our putative leader might be."

Hadley rolled her eyes. Taub was almost as sarcastic as House sometimes. She suspected he was upset that Foreman was in charge again, since Taub technically had more experience as a doctor. And since he couldn't take it out on Foreman, his boss, he was taking it out on her. She was wrong, Taub was just a little more like House than she suspected. He was just being sarcastic to rattle her chain.

Foreman strode into the room just in time to witness Hadley tossing her notes onto the table in front of Taub. "Here, to catch you up on our patient."

Foreman clenched his jaw. Having Remy bicker with Taub would make his job complicated, to say the least. "Why don't you make copies for us?" he asked, looking at her with an arched eyebrow.

Her mouth dropped open slightly, "Uh, OK."

Taub smirked.

"In the meantime, learn anything significant?" Foreman asked, hoping to smooth any feathers that he ruffled.

"She says the headaches have gotten worse in the last three months, which corresponds with the dizziness, neck pain, and balance problems. Oh, and she started menstruating when she was 12 years old. So, the migraines are unlikely to be connected to her hormones."

They spent the next 30 minutes running through a differential. Cuddy stopped to watch them for a few minutes from the hallway as she walked by on her way to Wilson's office. A pang of sadness struck her as she looked towards the dark office attached to the diagnostics conference room. Gregory House MD was not in the building.

Wilson sat at his desk poring over pathology report in file of Eugene Schwartz, the clinic patient for whom Taub had asked Wilson for a consult the day before. The diagnosis: stage III pancreatic cancer. Only 20 percent of patients diagnosed with stage III pancreatic cancer are still alive after 5 years. The odds were not in Eugene's favor.

In response to the knock at the door Wilson said, "It's unlocked."

Cuddy opened the door. "Did you call Mayfield?"

"Yes, he survived the first night of detox," Wilson replied. "Did you submit the paperwork for his medical leave?"

Cuddy nodded solemnly. "We are still telling his team that he's suspended."

"Do you really think that's a good idea?" Wilson knew that anyone who spent any time under House's tutelage would have developed some sleuthing skills. He feared that one of House's team members, probably Foreman who had been on the team the longest, would definitely figure out that they were lying.

"Yes. Foreman is too busy to bother with playing detective, Hadley is relieved not to have House daydreaming about her sex life, and Taub... I think Taub needs a break from House to process his own grief over Kutner's suicide. The two I would worry about more are Chase and Cameron, mostly Cameron. She has some kind of House radar." Cuddy regretted having said that last bit as soon as it came out of her mouth, especially after Wilson raised his eyebrows. It made her sound like she was jealous of Cameron's relationship with House. She continued with, "Conveniently they are on their honeymoon, so..."

Wilson thought about her answer for a minute and couldn't disagree. "OK."


	8. Chapter 8

House was still asleep at 7:00am when Jeanette's shift ended. She handed off his chart to the day nurse assigned to his case, Clarence, another long-time staff member at Mayfield. In a previous career Clarence had been a military medic and had just the right kind of toughness for dealing with some of Mayfield's more manipulative patients. House's case management team felt that Clarence was a good match for House, because they were certain that once they had House's withdrawal symptoms under control House would begin to live up to his formidable reputation. A brilliant mind with a sharp tongue could be a very dangerous thing in an addict.

"Wake up," House recognized Amber's annoying sing-song voice. When she started singing "Oh What a Beautiful Morning" House shoved his fingers into his ears. He didn't open his eyes. Surely he had processed enough Vicodin through his system to be free from the hallucinations by now?

"The half-life of Vicodin is 3-4 hours," said Kutner loudly. Amber stopped singing. House opened his eyes. This time it was Kutner who was perched on the edge of the bed. "But, you won't be completely rid of the stuff for a couple of days. And, remember, you took a lot more than you should have. You're lucky to be alive."

House stared up at the ceiling tiles. Lucky to be alive. Sure.

The door opened. "Good morning, House, I'm Clarence your nurse for the day." Clarence pushed a digital sphygmomanometer into the room.

"Couldn't cut it in med school?" House was in the mood to push buttons.

"Clever. Think I haven't heard that one before?" Clarence said with an ironic smile. "How's your pain level this morning?" he asked as he wrapped the cuff around House's right arm.

House felt like he had run a marathon and then jumped out of a plane without a parachute. It was a big improvement over how he felt at 4am. "Five."

"Muscle spasms?" Clarence was all business.

"Not bad, but I haven't tried to get out of bed yet." House realized that he would have to get up very soon. Spending all night on IV fluid meant a full bladder.

"Whether you like it or not I have to be here when you get up. Your blood pressure is a little low."

Great, another factor to increase the likelihood that he would fall. At least if he fell he was absolutely certain that his 6'4" linebacker of a nurse could get him up off the floor all by himself. House decided he might as well get it over with, sat up, threw off the covers and carefully moved his legs over the edge of the bed. The edges of his peripheral vision started to grey out. He took a deep breath. Just that slight change of position made him light-headed.

"How low is a little low?" House asked.

"95/62," Clarence told him. "Might want to sit there for a minute to adjust."

As if hopping right out of bed was actually possible for House even on a good day. He started his morning ritual of massaging his right quadriceps. House knew if he didn't warm up before he stood his leg would give way under his weight. Even when he did warm up in the morning before he stood about half of the time his leg gave way under his weight anyway. He watched Clarence write his notes in the chart.

Clarence was intentionally giving House as much privacy as he could. At one time Clarence worked in a VA hospital where he met more than enough disabled vets to recognize when a patient was particularly sensitive about disability issues. House was practically hermetically sealed inside a prickly bubble with "don't pity me" and "don't offer to help me" spray painted in radioactive orange on the outside. Clarence was not about to offer to help him get up, which posed somewhat of a problem for House because his cane was nowhere in sight.

"Hey, Laurence Nightingale, where's my cane?"

Clarence didn't respond. He was sensitive to the guy's issues, but he wasn't going to just let him be a jerk. Besides, he'd have to do better than that with a guy who withstood the kind of harassment inflicted on lower ranking military personnel during training.

"Yo, Laurence."

"Perhaps you misheard me, my name is Clarence," he said calmly without looking up from the chart.

House could see it would not really be that easy to needle Clarence. Or maybe House just wasn't on his A game yet. Regardless, House did not want to wet himself, so he grudgingly accepted that he would have to ask nicely. "Clarence, have you seen my cane anywhere in here?"

Clarence looked around, then stooped to look under the bed. "Yep, there it is." He set the chart on the tray table, got down on his hands and knees, retrieved the cane from under the bed, stood and handed it to House. That sequence took Clarence about a minute. It would have taken House a half an hour.

"Thanks," House mumbled. He slid to the edge of the bed and winced, bracing himself for the inevitable muscle spasms that would occur as a result of setting his bare feet on the cold tile floor. As anticipated his right leg started to buckle as soon as he stood and that combined with the low blood pressure caused him to sway precariously.

Clarence caught House firmly under the left elbow and then let go; it was just enough to prevent House from falling, but one might have thought that he was simply trying to get House's attention. "Hey, don't forget, you're still connected," he said motioning to the IV.

Smooth move, House thought. The big guy wasn't all that bad. "Right," he said and grabbed the IV pole.

House stood at the sink in the bathroom staring into the mirror. He barely recognized the greyish ghostly figure with the eerie azure eyes starting back at him. He was still in pain with frequent muscle spasms, which in combination with the shivering made his gait look like that of a spastic marionette. He had intermittent chills, nausea, and now yet another withdrawal symptom: diarrhea. So far that morning he had made three treks to the bathroom, and he knew from the cramping and the loud protestations of his intestines that this was not the end of it. His body was now coming apart just as much as his mind had. Why was he doing this again?

"You OK in there, House?" Clarence asked from the other side of the door.

"I'm not offing myself if that's what you're worried about." House said loudly.

Clarence called back, "I'm going to ask Dr. Krawiec to prescribe something for the diarrhea."

"Great! More drugs!"

Clarence rolled his eyes, but he actually preferred a patient with a bit of attitude to the patients who had completely given up on life and could do nothing for themselves.

When House opened the door Clarence asked him to rate the pain again. House was losing patience with that inquiry, because so far other than diazepam for the most severe muscle spasms they weren't giving him anything. Still he answered, because he thought they might eventually do something about it.


	9. Chapter 9

Even after reading Hadley's copious history notes, the case was not really that interesting. Of what possible relevance was it that Tessa's best friend got onto the junior varsity cheerleading squad, but she didn't? Taub sat at the workstation in the corner of the conference room reading the UpToDate entry on migraine headaches.

"Taub," Wilson said leaning in the conference room doorway, "Eugene Schwartz, the clinic patient..."

"Yeah," Taub replied looking up from the screen.

"Stage III pancreatic cancer."

"House got it right," Taub said.

Wilson nodded.

"Hey, Wilson," Taub stood up and walked across the room, "is House coming back?"

"One assumes Cuddy can't suspend him indefinitely." It wasn't a lie.

"So, it's true that she she suspended him?"

"Yes, it's true I suspended him," Cuddy said from behind Wilson. "And if you announce that you're having sex with me from the balcony I'll suspend you too."

Taub blushed much to Cuddy's surprise. "Dr. Taub, since Dr. House is not here to fulfill his clinic duty and your colleagues are with your patient...," she gave him a tight-lipped smile and pointed down the hall in the direction of the elevators.

Taub sighed and walked out of the conference room. Well, at least clinic duty might be more interesting than Tessa Matthews.

Cuddy tipped her head to the side, crossed her arms and gave Wilson an impatient frown.

"What? I just stopped here to tell Taub about the clinic patient House passed off on him yesterday. The guy has pancreatic cancer. He asked about House. What was I supposed to do? Tell him I couldn't talk about House? Don't you think that would be suspicious?"

He had a point. "Just be careful," she sighed.

They both looked over at House's office. "Want to get some lunch?" Wilson asked.

"Sure." Cuddy didn't really feel like eating a salad at her desk by herself.

Downstairs in the free clinic Taub found the waiting room full as usual. Mostly, he predicted, it would be the usual assortment of non-urgent scraped knees, insect bites, sore throats, and runny noses. Sometimes the cases were a little more interesting. The last time Kutner did clinic duty he had to pull a tiny plastic doll shoe out of a three year old kid's nose. The kid said it smelled good, like "stwawbewwies." The kid's sister held up the remaining shoe for Kutner to smell and he almost sniffed it up his own nose. Taub chuckled at the recollection.

"Who's next?" Taub asked Lois Montefiore, who was scribbling away busily in a chart at the reception desk.

"Oh, hello, Dr. Taub," she started with unconvincing friendliness. No doubt she was going to try to get information about House out of him. She flipped through the folders in front of her. "Here," she said holding one up, "room two."

Taub flipped open the folder. OK, this girl might be a lot more interesting than Tessa Matthews. Teenage girl reports that she is turning into a werewolf...

Foreman and Hadley were in the visitors' alcove down the hall from Tessa Matthews' room speaking with Adrienne Matthews, Tessa's mother. She was a cheerful, gregarious woman who spoke as rapidly as her daughter and spent almost as much time answering calls on her cell phone as her daughter spent responding to text messages on hers.

"Hello, hello? Oh, Cheryl! Cheryl, I have to call you back, uh-huh- oh reaaaaally?" she paused listening to the caller, "Uh-huh, listen, I really have to call you back, Tessa's in the hospital. Yeah, I know. Princeton-Plainsboro. Yeah, her doctor referred her to some guy named House, but he isn't here, figures, right? So, anyway, the doctors that work with this guy House are here, though. Yes, right now. I'll call you back. Buh-bye." She closed the clamshell phone with a snap and looked up at the doctors smiling ear to ear as if there was nothing odd about having answered four calls in the middle of discussing her daughter's health.

Foreman stood with his arms folded and his eyebrow arched disapprovingly. "Mrs. Matthews, it's really important for us to have a complete picture of the family history, in case there might be clues to Tessa's condition..."

"Oh, honey, Tessa told Dr. Harley here earlier, nobody else in the family has headaches like this girl. I mean, she can't even get out of bed. She falls right down."

Hadley looked at Foreman. "It's Hadley," she corrected. "She falls?" Hadley asked looking at her notes. Tessa didn't mention falling when they spoke earlier.

"Oh yeah, right down on the floor. Her father has to pick her up. I can't pick her up, because, ya know, I have a bad back," she said looking at her perfectly manicured nails.

"Did you mention this to her pediatrician?" Foreman asked.

"Um, well, no, it just started happening like last month and we were already planning to come here, so..." seeing the looks on Foreman's and Hadley's faces she added, "Why? Is that bad?"

"Well," Foreman said calmly, "it's not necessarily bad. It's another clue. Thank you, Mrs. Matthews. You can go back to Tessa's room."

She got up and headed back to her daughter's room just as her cell phone started ringing again. Of course, she answered it.

"She falls down and can't get back up?" Hadley said.

"Her pediatrician didn't run an EEG," Foreman said looking in Tessa's file. "This could be seizures."

Taub walked into clinic exam room two and introduced himself. Elaina Truman did not look like a werewolf upon first glance. Taub was slightly disappointed to find an ordinary-looking 15 year old girl seated on the exam table. She had long, straight, dark brown hair, high cheekbones, and clear skin with no extra hairiness anywhere that he could see. The only imperfection he noticed was slightly protruding ears, which would not have been noticeable had she not tucked her hair behind them. He was a little disappointed.

"So," Taub began, "what brings you to the clinic today?"

"Didn't that nurse tell you?" she asked frowning.

"Um," he tried to think of a way to phrase it without saying the word werewolf, but since he didn't know exactly what the problem was he couldn't even begin, "...um, it says here you think you're becoming a... werewolf."

The girl burst into tears, which lead her to a fit of coughing. Taub patted her on the shoulder and handed her a tissue. "OK, it's OK. I really do not think that you are becoming a werewolf, because there is no such thing as a werewolf.:

She sniffled, wiped her nose on the tissue, and said, "Well, duh!" and rolled her eyes.

He asked calmly, "So, what makes you think that? Do you have any particular symptoms?"

"Look!" She pulled up her sleeves and held her bare arms out for Taub to see. Sure enough, she had an abnormally thick, fine silky layer of hair growing on her arms and since she did not appear to be particularly hirsute otherwise, he could see how this development lead to such an outlandish description.

"Elaina, this is called hypertrichosis. When it's not something that you were born with then it is called acquired hypertrichosis. That means something caused it." Since she did not appear to be significantly underweight for her height it was probably not from starvation, malnutrition or anorexia so he lead with the most likely cause for acquired hypertrichosis, "Are you taking any medications?"

She shook her head. So, this was a puzzle after all.

Foreman filled out the paperwork to order an EEG for Tessa Matthews. On his way to lunch he stopped by her room to talk to her and other mother only to find Remy was already there, and from the looks on their faces there was something else wrong.

"She can't feel her fingers!" Adrienne Matthews said as he walked into the room.

Tessa was rubbing her hands together briskly as if they were cold.

"What happened?" Foreman asked.

Hadley relayed to him that just before he arrived, as she passed by Tessa's room Mrs. Matthews got her attention and told her that Tessa was having trouble text messaging. Hadley thought she meant that her phone wasn't getting service, but it turned out that Tessa's fingertips were numb.

"Exactly how many text messages have you sent this morning?" Foreman asked.

Tessa shrugged. "Maybe like, 300 or 400."

"OK, I think that your fingers are probably numb from repetitive stress. You should give your hands a break. They'll be bringing you some lunch soon anyway, so it's a good time to take a break. When we come back from lunch this afternoon we're going to do a test called an EEG to look at electrical activity in your brain, and you won't be able to text message then either."

Hadley added, "The test won't hurt. We just stick some little electrodes to your scalp and a machine measures the electrical activity."

Tessa nodded dejectedly. No texting during lunch. That's when most of her friends would be available to text. Her mother understood her disappointment and said, "Ah, honey, maybe we can watch some TV. The soaps are on," to which they both smiled.


	10. Chapter 10

Dr. Feliks Krawiec was 75 years old, but no one would have guessed it by looking at him. He was 6' tall and very straight, with a thick thatch of silver hair that stood somewhat in disarray despite being kept rather short. His prominent nose would have been the first thing others noticed about his face had it not been for his piercing, dark sapphire blue eyes. Despite having come to America when he was only 12 years old he still had a noticeable Polish accent.

Krawiec was passing through the detox ward when Clarence exited House's room. "Hey, Doc," Clarence started, "this guy is in quite a bit of pain, and with mobility issues the getting up and down to use the bathroom is difficult. Want to take a look at the chart?"

"Sure thing Clarence." Krawiec took House's chart from the nurse. He rubbed his fingers across his upper lip as if straightening a mustache, except his face was clean-shaven. He reached into his pocket protector and pulled out a bright blue Waterman fountain pen. "Give him buprenorphine. I think that will be better than waiting to give him methadone and have the added bonus of solving the other problem."

"The case team felt it would be better to wait until he was finished with detox to assess his pain." Clarence said, reiterating what was already written in House's growing case file.

"The case team," Krawiec replied with a grin, "can come down here and hold the patient's hand while he screams then. Give him the buprenorphine, Clarence." It wasn't an angry response, merely matter of fact. Krawiec was often at odds with the case teams, but he was well respected and usually suffered no consequence of making independent decisions about patient treatment even when they varied from what the group thought was best.

House had only just managed to get himself back into bed when Clarence returned, hands gloved, holding a capped syringe.

"What's that?" he asked through his chattering teeth.

"Dr. Krawiec feels that you would be better off with some pain management now, rather than later. He prescribed Buprenex." Clarence set the syringe down on the table and took an alcohol wipe out of his scrub top pocket. "We usually do this ventrogluteal," he said indicating an intramuscular injection in the hip. "It would probably be easier if you stood."

House knew the effort involved in getting up and standing as still as he possibly could would be rewarded. Buprenorphine treated moderate to severe pain, and he knew it worked pretty well for him because he had been given it before a few years earlier during his last attempt at rehab. The only trouble was the side effects included nausea and vomiting, which House was hoping to avoid. Of course, he was on an anti-emetic, so that really only left the potential cardiac side effects, and the small chance of urinary retention. His personal experience with that particular unusual side effect of pain medication... well, what could he say about that other than inserting one's own Foley catheter was certainly not something he'd recommend.

After Clarence discarded the syringe, he listened to House's heart and lungs, checked his blood pressure and pulse and asked him if he knew that in detox patients could watch TV.

"In the rehab units the bedrooms don't have TV's, but patients in detox sometimes need the distraction." Clarence said. "I can get you a remote if you want."

"Cable?" House asked.

"Well, a basic version of it. Better than just off the air."

House nodded. At least he might be able to catch his favorite soap opera.

"Do you think you're up to eating? I can get you some broth, crackers, jello...?"

House shrugged. He didn't really feel like eating, but if he did throw up again it might actually be better to throw up something than to dry heave over and over again.

"I'll bring you something. If you don't want it, you don't have to eat it." Clarence said on his way out the door.

"Cool, you have TV," said Kutner. House rolled his eyes. At least they were showing up less frequently. It was very distracting to have a conversation with someone who was really there while someone who was not really there mimicked them, made faces or tried to insert him or herself into the conversation.

"Why are you still here?" House asked.

"Because you want us to be here?" Kutner answered.

"You answered my question with a question." House was mildly annoyed.

"Wonder where he got that from?" Amber asked sarcastically as she looked out the window.

"I have no idea," House responded equally sarcastically just as the door opened. Damn.

"Good morning, I'm Dr. Krawiec," he smiled warmly and then asked, "And, to whom are we speaking?" as he walked over to the bedside looking around the room.

"Do you see anyone in here besides me?" asked House.

"No, Dr. House, but you do." Krawiec was also not a fan of referring to patients by their first names.

House felt defensive, "Obviously you've read my file. You know how I ended up here in the..."

"...loony bin," finished Krawiec. "Sometimes, Dr. House, the most sane thing a person can do is to go insane." And with that Krawiec smiled again, turned and walked out the door.

Clarence returned with a food tray balanced on one arm. He included a sampling from the standard bland diet hospital fare: chicken broth, crackers, tea, Jello, ginger ale, and vanilla ice cream. Sliding around on the edge of the tray was the black plastic remote control for the TV.

"Here you go," he said setting the tray on the table.

House thanked him. He was hoping Clarence wouldn't stick around too long. Amber and Kutner were both in the room ever since Krawiec left, but neither of them was talking. He found it eerie and odd and wanted to get to the bottom of it.

"If you need me, you know how to reach me," Clarence said as he left.

"What's up with the silent treatment?" No wonder he felt insane. Now his "selves" weren't talking to him.

House looked at Amber, then Kutner, then back. Neither of them even blinked. "Fine," he said. He peeled the top off the vanilla ice cream, and turned on the TV. The Hospital had just started.

"You should talk to Dr. Krawiec," Kutner finally broke the silence.

"No," Amber countered, "you should not."

Kutner rolled his eyes. "You should not listen to her."

"Why shouldn't he listen to me? I helped him save patients. I'm brilliant."

"Heh, yeah that may be partly true," Kutner responded, "but you also tried to kill Chase."

House was trying to ignore their bickering and watch The Hospital, but he found them too distracting. Now he wished he hadn't said anything to them, but since it was too late he decided to jump into the fray. "Why should I talk to Krawiec?" he asked.

"You shouldn't," Amber said sitting in one of the side chairs. She started watching the TV. House followed her gaze back to the screen. The Hospital was back from commercial break.

Kutner snapped his fingers. "Hey, over here," he said as he stood near the door. "You should talk to Krawiec, because you need to find out why he said that sometimes the most sane thing to do is go insane."

House nodded. He had to admit, it did seem like an odd thing for a doctor in a mental hospital to say. Weren't they usually in the business of preventing people from going insane, and making insane people sane again? Amber was annoyed. "I'm outta here," she said. "You're going to start listening to him more, and I can't watch it happen." And with that Amber disappeared.

"I'm sorry," said Kutner.

"Sorry?" House didn't know what to think or feel.

"Sorry that she didn't let you say goodbye. You don't need her anymore, but she could have given you that much," Kutner shook his head.

House squeezed his eyes shut. The guy who committed suicide with no note and no warning was now apologizing because the girl who came to pick up his drunken, sorry ass and died didn't let him say goodbye. Suddenly he really didn't feel like eating. He turned up the volume on the TV and stared intently at the screen.


	11. Chapter 11

"I think you should," Wilson said as he picked up a forkful of salad greens.

Cuddy stirred her soup repeatedly, but didn't even taste it. "He's still in detox, though."

"Well, yeah, they won't let you visit him in detox, but once he's moved to the rehab he can have visitors. I told him I'd come out there to visit. I'm sure he'd like to see you too."

Hadley nudged Foreman and gestured towards the far back corner of the cafeteria. "Look, Cuddy and Wilson."

Foreman turned. "Yeah, I noticed."

"I bet they are talking about House," she said.

"Probably," Foreman paid for their lunches.

"Aren't you the least bit curious?" she asked.

"Remy, are you crazy? Let sleeping dogs lie."

"OK," Wilson whispered, "we're talking about a patient." He tipped his head towards Foreman and Hadley as they walked across the cafeteria.

Cuddy slowly turned to look, and was glad that neither of them noticed her doing so. "Ah, yes, a patient. How is the patient, by the way? House's clinic patient?"

"Oh, it's stage III. I'll be talking to him and his wife later this afternoon. The prognosis isn't very good. Nice guy. Said House is a genius. Also said House told Taub to stay with him in radiology, and seemed very caring and concerned."

That must have been right after she fired him and right before he came back to her office, she thought. She really could not understand how House's train went so far off the tracks and none of them had really noticed. Sure, they all knew he was in pain. He was always in pain. And he took too much Vicodin. That was pretty much a given. He wasn't sleeping. He told her that himself. But, he planned Chase's bachelor party and he treated patients successfully. She thought he was just experiencing a rough spot. They all were since Kutner's suicide.

"Cuddy," Wilson said, "stop beating yourself up."

"Easier said than done," she said.

He sighed, "I know, but it won't do you, or me, or him any good. OK?"

"You're right," she agreed. She could certainly see why it was that so many nurses, therapists, technicians... come to think of it so many women at the hospital in general, were so fond of James Wilson. He was a sympathetic ear, a shoulder to cry on, the boy next door, the best friend. For her he was House's best friend and therefore a comrade in the war to help House win back his mind.

After finishing his lunch, Taub strolled back into the diagnostics conference room with a self-satisfied grin on his face. He solved the case of Elaina Truman, the werewolf girl. Of course, this also meant that he and everyone else who had had close contact with Elaina Truman, at the hospital or elsewhere needed to have skin tests now and again in a few weeks: Elaina Truman had tuberculosis.

It was extremely rare for TB to result in hypertrichosis, especially untreated TB since streptomycin used to treat TB was a more likely cause, but lo and behold... high school girl who worked in a soup kitchen for the homeless on a regular basis and has a persistent cough was at increased risk and had a very positive test result. He was happy to be able to tell the girl that the excess hair on her arms would go away after the TB was treated.

"Where have you been?" Foreman asked in a noticeably annoyed tone.

"Cuddy told me that one of us had to fill in for House's clinic duty hours, and since you two were with the patient she told me..."

"You might have informed me that's where you were." Foreman cut him off. "And, you might want to bring your pager with you, next time." Taub reached into his coat pocket as Foreman pointed to the pager on the desk across the room where Taub had been sitting earlier when Wilson arrived. Foreman continued, "Our patient's EEG was not indicative of seizures."

"We thought our patient was having seizures?" Taub picked up the file from the conference table.

"She neglected to mention to Dr. Hadley that when she has migraines she falls down and can't get up. Her mother told us."

Well, that certainly put a different spin on things. Taub noticed that Hadley had added "falling" and "numbness in fingers" to the whiteboard.

"Where is Dr. Hadley?" Taub asked.

"She went next door to see if we can get Wilson for a consult," he answered.

"We think the patient has a brain tumor?" Taub asked.

"Yes," Foreman answered, "we do. In the meantime, take the patient downstairs for an MRI."

Taub grabbed his pager and went to Tessa's room. He was surprised to find the lights off, the blinds drawn closed and the patient moaning in bed while her mother sat in a chair near the foot of the bed whispering loudly into her cell phone.

"Hi," he said as softly as he could to be audible above the mother's phone conversation, "I'm Dr. Taub. Tessa has a headache now?"

"Diane, I gotta go," she ended her phone conversation. "No, we turned off the lights for the atmosphere, whad'ya think?" she asked sarcastically. "What did the test say?"

"We need to do another test, an MRI."

"Can she have that while she has a headache?"

"Ideally we want to stop the headache before we move her." Taub flipped open her chart to see what had been prescribed for the headache. Taub looked up at the girl twisting in pain on the bed and noticed her arms and legs looked oddly contorted.

"I'll be right back," he said and literally ran back down the hall.

Wilson and Hadley were walking towards the diagnostics conference room when Taub came running. "It's not a tumor!" he exclaimed as he passed them.

Wilson arched his eyebrow, Hadley shrugged and they followed him into the conference room where Foreman sat at the table staring at the whiteboard.

"It's not a tumor," Taub panted.

"You can't tell me that the patient has already had that MRI," Foreman said looking at his watch.

"No, but the patient has a headache," Taub said.

"She has migraines," Hadley interjected.

"No, no, she doesn't." Taub was almost gleeful.

Foreman crossed his arms, and looked skeptical.

"Her arms and legs are spastic."

"Oh?" Foreman considered this additional symptom as he reviewed the list on the whiteboard. "Oh!" Taub grinned ear to ear. Foreman got it too!

"She still needs an MRI to confirm, but it fits perfectly." Foreman said.

Wilson asked, "So, you really don't think it's a tumor?"

Foreman smiled, "She has Chiari Malformation. The MRI should show that her cerebellum is herniating into the spinal column. It would cause all of the symptoms she has, including her numb texting fingers. Good job, Taub."

The MRI confirmed that Tessa Matthews indeed had a Chiari Malformation, specifically a Chiari I Malformation. Foreman, Hadley and Taub showed Tessa a cutaway drawing of a human skull that depicted what a Chiari Malformation looks like, and explained to Tessa and her parents that she was born with this malformation in her cranial anatomy and that it could be treated surgically. They explained how the surgery would release the pressure on her nerves and relieve most, if not all, of her symptoms. The family accepted that surgery was the best option and thanked Taub, Hadley and Foreman profusely.

At the end of the day Foreman erased Tessa's list of symptoms from the whiteboard in the diagnostics conference room. He looked through the mail, sorting House's personal mail from the mail intended for the department, and carried what he assumed was personal mail into House's dark office.

When he set the stack of envelopes and catalogs neatly on House's desk Foreman noticed the corner of a piece of white cotton paper sticking out from under the edge of the blotter. He looked around and seeing that no one was in the hallway outside, and knowing that Taub had gone home and Remy had gone to pick up their dinner, he slid the paper out from under the blotter.

It was a single sheet of House's personal letterhead. Only the date and the salutation of a letter were written at the top in careful, neat print. The salutation said simply: "Kutner," and that was it. It was dated around the time that the rest of the staff, at the suggestion of the grief counselor, had written notes to Kutner for his memorial. Foreman recalled that a single blank sheet of House's letterhead had been included in the memorial. He remembered thinking that House was such a jerk for sending a blank sheet.

But in seeing this apparent attempt on House's part to write something Foreman suddenly felt that he had seen just a hint of the man behind the curtain, and it was really too much information for him to handle. He didn't want to acknowledge House's humanity, because then he'd have to acknowledge the ways in which maybe he was actually less human, or less humane, than House. He gently slid the slip of paper back under House's blotter.


	12. Chapter 12

Cuddy had just shut down her computer for the day when Wilson knocked on her door. He waved and she gestured for him to come in as she retrieved a printout from her LaserJet.

"Cameron's article on diagnostics in emergency medicine. The journal issue was published today," she said as she stapled the sheets of paper and then put them into her briefcase. "What's up?"

"I saw Foreman in House's office about 20 minutes ago," he started. "He was in there in the dark, putting something under the blotter on the desk, so after he left I went to see what it was..." he took the single sheet of House's letterhead out of his own briefcase and handed it to Cuddy.

"This is House's handwriting on House's letterhead," she said frowning sadly.

"Yes, I think Foreman must have taken it out and put it back," he said. "I don't think it was just too much Vicodin that lead to this..." he struggled to find the right word, "situation." He didn't want to say breakdown out loud even though that's what he was thinking.

Cuddy laid the unfinished letter on her desk and held her forehead in her palm. "No," she agreed, "I don't think so either. But you know House..." she trailed off sighing.

Wilson nodded sadly, "Mayfield has a good program," he said. "I'm sure they'll realize it's not just the leg and the Vicodin."

"Yes, well, the question is will House?" Cuddy asked as they walked out of her office.

Cuddy was relieved to encounter little traffic on her way home that night. She looked forward to having a long evening with Rachel before her daughter's bedtime.

"Welcome home, Mommy!" Amelia exclaimed animatedly as the door opened. Rachel's nearly bald little head bobbed around like a baby robin's as she looked for her mother.

Cuddy smiled and sighed happily as she took her daughter from Amelia's arms. "How was your day?" she asked the baby and looked at her nanny.

"We had a great day. She drank all of her bottles, and had two naps. I brought her out for a walk at 3 and she really liked that," Amelia said as she retrieved her backpack from the hall closet. "If it's nice tomorrow we'll do that again."

"I might need you to stay late one night next week, if that's OK?" Cuddy asked.

"Sure, Lisa, classes end for the semester this week. Just let me know," she smiled, leaned down and kissed Rachel. "Night-night, Rachel," she sang sweetly. "See you tomorrow morning."

"Thank you, Amelia. See you tomorrow." Cuddy closed the door behind the nanny. She kissed Rachel's sweet baby-scented head. "Mommy had such a long day. I'm so glad to be home with my sweet girl."

She carried Rachel facing out on her hip as she prepared a bottle and put together a salad for herself with one hand. Leaving the salad on the kitchen counter she carried Rachel and the bottle to the living room where she snuggled with the baby while feeding her her baby formula dinner.

After Rachel was fed Cuddy put her in her swing while she ate her own light meal and read Cameron's article. She wondered if House even knew about the article. It was clear that Cameron's diagnostic skills, honed under House, were an asset to the PPTH emergency department.

Rachel started fussing and Cuddy busied herself with baby bedtime preparations. With a clean diaper and cozy pajamas Rachel calmed down and rocking in her mother' arms put her right to sleep by 8:00pm. Cuddy carefully placed her infant daughter in her crib, turned the nightlight on and tiptoed out of the room.

Cuddy went to her bedroom closet and pulled a cardboard box off the top shelf. She pulled a well worn deep sky blue sweatshirt with University of Michigan embroidered on the front in maize yellow out of the top of the box and searched through the papers for one of several books in the bottom of the box. She knew from its particularly heavy weight that she had found the book for which she was looking: Introduction to Organic Chemistry. She took the aged textbook out of the box and opened to the title page where, printed neatly in a now very familiar handwriting was:

"To the future Dr. Lisa Cuddy: it's all about chemistry. G. House."

She smiled remembering the dashing, athletic, 20-something med student Greg House who had given her this copy of the organic chemistry textbook he had recommended as a companion to the one her professor had chosen for the course after he helped her study for her first organic chem exam.

She had only been a freshman. She knew of him before she actually knew him due to his reputation on campus. She had been really surprised when she discovered that her chemistry tutor, whom she had contacted in response to an index card ad for chem tutoring left on a dining hall bulletin board, was none other than the Greg House. He was tutoring undergrads for extra cash.

But, that note... the note in the book. That wasn't just about molecules and equations. It was more about bonds, she thought and carried the book out to the shelves in the living room. It deserved to be kept in the light.


	13. Chapter 13

House watched The Hospital. Then he switched back and forth between a cooking show and a show about painting. He almost fell asleep watching the painting show, because the narrator/artist had a soothing, hypnotic voice.

"House," Kutner said loudly. House had started to drift off to sleep as the artist painted "happy little trees" around a snow-covered cabin. He tried to ignore Kutner. "House, you won't be able to ignore me any better than you were able to ignore her."

House raised his eyebrow at Kutner and turned up the TV volume to the maximum setting. Kutner rolled his eyes. "Really mature!" Kutner shouted.

Clarence came in rather quickly upon the extreme volume increase. "Hey! That's way too loud. You know, there are other people in here who aren't lucky enough to have pain medication while they are detoxing. That noise could push them over the edge." He turned down the volume using the controls on the front of the TV.

"Yeah, I'm so lucky," House responded sarcastically.

"Yes, Dr. House," said Dr. Krawiec as he walked into the room, "you are pretty lucky actually." Krawiec turned to Clarence and said, "I'll check his vitals, Clarence." Clarence nodded and left the room.

"Would you please turn that off?" Krawiec asked gesturing towards the TV as he put the eartips of his stethoscope in his ears.

House felt suddenly cagy being alone with Krawiec, but turned off the TV. Kutner was nowhere to be seen. Fine time to finally be left alone.

"Heart is fine. Take a breath," Krawiec instructed. "Lungs are fine."

"I'm aware. In case you don't remember, I have one of those myself," he said and pointed at the stethoscope.

"Ah, yes, but here you are the patient," Krawiec said with a genuine, warm smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "So that Clarence does not get into trouble I need to check your blood pressure and pulse. I will be right back." Krawiec loped out into the hallway after the digital sphygmomanometer/pulse oxymeter.

House was startled when he turned to look out the window and saw that Kutner was standing there. "Ask him," Kutner said.

Before House could even open his mouth in response the door swung open again and Kutner disappeared. Krawiec returned pushing the equipment he needed to measure House's vital signs. He held a clipboard with House's chart affixed to it under one arm.

"So, you are feeling much better today, Dr. House?" Krawiec asked. "How is the pain now?"

House was grateful to Krawiec for the buprenorphine. "Much better since the Buprenex, thanks." In fact, he only felt a tolerable, low-level undercurrent of pain and that was only in his leg.

"Still hallucinating?" Krawiec asked as he made notes in the chart. When House didn't respond he looked up, one eyebrow raised.

"Are you a shrink?" House asked in a distrustful tone.

Krawiec laughed, "No, Dr. House, I am not a psychiatrist. I am board certified in Internal Medicine. I spend most of my time taking care of patients, such as yourself, here in detox. Patients upstairs do not need as much medical care as detox patients do, as you know."

Krawiec dragged one of the side chairs over next to the bed and sat down. He leaned forward and continued, "I tell the students who come here as part of their training that I am the tailor. It is my job to stitch up the outsides so that someone else-- the psychiatrists, counselors or psychologists-- can put the stuffing back in," he said tapping the side of his head. "It is somewhat of a play on words, if you will, because that is what my name means in Polish: krawiec means tailor."

"Very clever," said House sarcastically and rolled his eyes.

"Do you always do that?" Krawiec asked.

"What?"

"Push people away with sarcasm?" Krawiec asked very calmly.

"I thought you said you are not a shrink," House deflected.

"You did not answer my question," Krawiec would not be goaded into arguing over his specialization. He had already stated the facts in that regard and had no intention of repeating himself.

"Yes," House admitted much to his own surprise and looked away.

"Good that you know this about yourself," Krawiec said, "for as they say, knowing is half the battle."

"Dr. Krawiec," House started hesitantly.

"Mm-hmm," Krawiec responded encouragingly.

"What exactly did you mean..." House couldn't finish, but Krawiec understood what he was asking.

"Well, if you will forgive my use of sewing metaphors, sometimes there is too much stuffing in a pillow that maybe didn't have the best seams to begin with, and the seams burst in places, from the pressure of too much stuffing. You have to take out the stuffing, reinforce the seams and put the stuffing back... make sense?" he paused waiting for some sign that House was following.

House nodded.

"So, if a person is walking around with far too much stuffing and his seams aren't really that great his stuffing could be falling out everywhere. He could keep picking it up and shoving it back in bit by bit, but it will keep falling out, or he could just tear it all out and get it over with. I happen to be in favor of the tearing it out method. Sure, it is much more dramatic, but ultimately it seems more effective. Putting the little bits back in here and there hardly solves the problem in the long run." he said. "See?"

House actually smiled. "Dr. House," Krawiec continued and then interrupted his own train of thought, "Do you mind if I stop calling you Dr. House? It seems much too formal at this point..."

"House is fine."

"House, you will have a much easier time here if you recognize that you are way past the stuffing coming out in bits stage, and that's OK. Help us to help you get the Vicodin out of your system and get your pain under control. Those are the last bits of the stuffing that need to be taken care of before you can get to work on sewing. Use this time to rest, so that you can make stronger seams. And, don't forget, you don't have to do all of the stitching all by yourself. Let us do our jobs, and let the people who care about you help you too."

House nodded. He had found a kindred spirit. At the very least Krawiec was a kindred spirit in an extreme fixation with metaphors. For House it was the best medicine he could have been given.


	14. Chapter 14

Krawiec's pager beeped loudly just after he finished his metaphoric bit of advice to House. "It appears that I am needed elsewhere," he said smiling. "Do let the nurses know if you have any additional withdrawal symptoms or any side effects from the medication. I'll be leaving soon, at 7, as will Clarence, but Dr. Cho will be here tonight and I believe your nurse tonight will again be the inestimable Jeanette."

House, who was a little disappointed that Krawiec was leaving, reached out in a what some might have seen as an uncharacteristically friendly gesture to shake the older doctor's hand. "Thank you," he said quietly.

"You are most welcome. I'll be keeping an eye on you," Krawiec said giving House's hand a firm, steady shake in return.

Krawiec felt particular empathy for the patients like House, the patients who had so-called co-existing conditions. Under the barbed, defensive, and occasionally, so they had been warned in the intake documentation, offensive exterior Krawiec saw a terribly lonely, truly frightened, very sad man who was not really in touch with why he was there. But, he was getting there. Krawiec made a mental note to go upstairs and talk to someone on House's case management team about the counselor who been assigned to be House's therapist. Krawiec thought there was a better choice.

Kutner stood near the window smiling out at the pink sunset-stained sky. House looked up at the ceiling. "Are you leaving now?" he asked the hallucination.

"Do you want me to leave?" Kutner responded, turning to face House.

House continued to stare up at the ceiling for a few minutes. He reached over cringing and peeled up the Tegaderm bandage that covered the IV catheter and then quickly pulled the IV out of his arm. He carefully stood, a bit unsteadily, grabbed his cane and went to the door.

"Where are you going?" Kutner asked in a completely shocked tone.

"Getting out of here," House answered.

"House," Kutner responded, "it's a locked ward."

"Where there's a will, there's a way," House said listening carefully at the door before opening it a crack to peek out into the hallway.

There was a commotion past House's room at the far end of the hall. Based on the number of medical personnel rushing around in and out of one of the rooms there was clearly a medical emergency. It was the perfect opportunity for him to escape made more perfect when the double doors to the central hallway unlocked and then propped open by EMT's pushing a gurney.

House made a hobbled dash for the doors. Once he made it out into the central hallway he knew he had to do two things: find something to wear other than a Mayfield gown and robe, and find a way out of the building other than the main entrance/exit. A short way down the hall from the detox doors was a door marked: STAIRS. If he could get down to the basement, he thought, he might find some clothes in the hospital's laundry facility and also possibly where he could get out without being noticed. He headed for that door, found it to be unlocked and managed to close it quietly behind himself just as the EMT's and Mayfield staff came noisily out of the detox ward.

The stairwell was long, steep, narrow and dimly lit. It was times like this that House was literally painfully reminded of his own disability. He hooked his cane over his right elbow and clung to the thickly painted steel pipe handrail with both hands as he made his way down. Fortunately he only had to travel from the first floor to the basement. At the bottom of the stairs he could hear the noise and feel the heat and humidity of the laundry.

House pushed the heavy door open and stepped into the basement. He stayed in the shadowy end of the hallway and watched the doorway to the laundry room. A stocky guy pushed a rolling cart of clean, folded bed linens out of the laundry room and down the hall towards the elevators at the far end. House waited until the elevator doors closed and went to the laundry room door. A woman stood with her back to the door loading blankets into a huge washer. Tons of laundry, but no clothes in sight other than a small stack of hospital gowns and robes. Damn.

Well, House thought, he'd just have to go like this. He walked past the laundry room looking for an exit. There had to be a fire exit somewhere down in the basement. Eventually he looked down a dimly lit hallway and saw the red glow of the emergency exit sign. As he got closer he saw, much to his great disappointment, that the door had an alarmed crash bar. If he opened that door the building fire alarm would sound. And then, to his relief when he finally reached the door, he discovered that someone, probably a smoker sneaking out for smoke breaks, had disarmed the bar and blocked the door open using a folded washcloth.

"Yes! Freedom!" House whispered loudly as he exited the building. Squinting into the dark he realized that he was at the back of the building next to the loading dock. He also realized that he could see his breath and wearing only a gown, robe and slippers he started shivering. He turned around, re-opened the fire exit door and went back inside.

It took Mayfield's detox staff a 45 minutes to realize that House was missing from his room due to the chaos surrounding the patient who coded while detoxing. Clarence had gone into House's room on his way out at the end of his shift to tell House that Krawiec had recommended that he be released to the rehab the next day and found the bed empty and the patient nowhere in sight.

The security guard who spoke with the detox staff said, "He is almost certainly still in the building, because he didn't walk out the front door and we'd know if he opened an emergency exit. It shouldn't take us long to find him. We'll check all of the storage areas in case he's after drugs."

"He won't get far," Krawiec added. "Even if he did get out of the building he is wearing only a gown, robe and slippers, and it's cold tonight. Plus, some of the medications we have been giving him will be starting to wear off." Krawiec ran his long fingers through his unruly silver hair.

"Do you really think he's after drugs?" Clarence asked Krawiec when the guard left to start a sweep of the building in search of House.

"No," Krawiec answered, "he's running away from something, not to something." Standing in the middle of the central hallway just outside the detox doors Krawiec turned slowly, carefully scanning the environment. He smiled when he saw the basement stairwell door. "Clarence, before you leave please call Dr. Coughlin at home and tell her I think it might be time for her to meet her new patient. I'm going to retrieve our runaway."

"House?!" Krawiec shouted into the basement hallway. "I know that you are down here. Well, I assume that you are since this was the most logical route of escape."

House, who was still shivering, but no longer only from the chill of having been outdoors, stepped out of the shadows of the long dark hallway to the fire exit. "Drugs are wearing off..." he said through his chattering teeth.

"How's the pain?" Krawiec asked as he walked towards House.

"It's... OK..."

"OK, we're going to take the elevator back upstairs and get you back on your meds, but before we do I want to say something." Krawiec's tone was paternal, slightly exasperated and a little bit annoyed.

House nodded. He should have known better than to try to take off at the end of the day when he had last received the medications that controlled his withdrawal symptoms and pain in the morning.

"You are here of your own free will, House. I know that your friend brought you here, but you were not committed by the courts, so I assume that you chose to come here. Yes?" He waited for a nod and then continued. "That means that you can leave if you want, but you should do so through the front doors. If you want to leave I will make sure that you get some Bupenex before you go, and we'll get you your clothes and call someone to come get you. Is that what you want?"

House looked down at his slippered feet. In a way he felt like he was being treated like a spoiled child who got caught breaking the rules. In a way he felt ridiculous, because he had essentially behaved like a spoiled child and did break the rules.

"No," he said softly, "I... do... want to stay."

Krawiec threw his arm around House's shoulders and said, "Good, I am glad. I want you to meet someone..." and then walked with House to the elevator.

Back upstairs in the detox ward House received his medication and then was informed by a program administrator that he was officially warned for rules violation and that any additional rules violation would result in expulsion from the program. Even though his shift had ended two hours before Krawiec stayed in the room with him the whole time House was being reprimanded and continued to stay after the administrator left.

"Don't you have a life?" House asked somewhat irritated. Wasn't this whole situation humiliating enough. Did he really need a personal babysitter?

"If by that question do you mean do to ask if I have a family, then the answer is yes, I do. However, I do not have someone waiting for me at home right now. My wife, may she rest in peace, died two years ago."

House felt like a heel, but said nothing.

"If you wonder why I am still here, it is because I am waiting for the person I want you to meet. I asked Clarence to ask her to come tonight."

"Oh?" House was apprehensive about this.

"Her name is Dr. Darcy Coughlin. She is a psychiatrist on staff here. She will be your rehab counselor. In light of your recent... misadventure I thought perhaps it might be best if she came to meet you tonight." Krawiec leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes.


	15. Chapter 15

Just when House thought the older doctor might drift off to sleep in the side chair the door opened and in walked a very tall woman with long, salt and pepper ringlets and eyes so dark brown that they looked like obsidian.

"Feliks," she said nodding at Krawiec.

"Dr. House, this is Dr. Coughlin. Dr. Coughlin, Dr. House. And with that introduction over, I bid you both goodnight before I fall asleep in this chair." Krawiec smiled broadly and left the room.

"Mind if I sit?" she asked.

"No," he answered. "Do shrinks often just show up here in detox like this?" House asked.

"No, but then again I can't remember the last time a detox patient tried to escape," she answered matter-of-factly.

"So, that's why you are here?"

"Pretty much," she replied.

"And, you want me to tell you my innermost thoughts?" House asked sarcastically.

"Well, I suppose if you really want to, sure, but that's not how I usually start getting to know a patient," she answered ignoring the sarcasm.

Hmm, she didn't take the bait. "How do you usually get to know a patient?" he inquired.

"How do you?" she asked in reply.

"I asked you first."

"OK, we can play that game... Usually I ask my patients to tell me about themselves. My turn," she smiled, "tell me about yourself, House, what's your specialty?"

Although she got him to do so somewhat manipulatively Coughlin got House to start talking. Asking him to talk about his work was a fairly innocuous beginning.

Coughlin stayed with House until 11pm. On her way out she stopped and made a note in his chart that she concurred with Krawiec's instruction that he be moved to the rehab unit. And, she noted, she wanted to see him as soon as he was settled in his new room, which she also noted should be a private room. She underscored the word private. She thought things would go a lot more smoothly if he only had himself to deal with.

Just after shift change the next morning Clarence returned to House's room carrying House's suitcase. "Here you go. I'll take out that IV and you can change into your own clothes. Then I'll walk you up to Rehab Ward C."

"Thanks," House felt the same nervousness he had before he left PPTH rise in his chest. This time he didn't have the agony of withdrawal or extreme pain in his leg to distract him. This time the fear was of pain of a different kind.

Clarence removed the IV catheter and put a bandage over the site. "I'll give you some privacy. Be back in a few."

House was relieved to be rid of the gown and the robe, to be dressed in his jeans and t-shirt, and to be able to wear his Nikes again. Once dressed he sat in one of the side chairs, leaning forward with his forehead resting on his cane.

"Ready?" Kutner asked from the bed.

"I thought you were gone." House said without looking up.

"No, not yet. Do you want me to go?"

House said nothing. Clarence returned a few minutes later.

"Ready?" Clarence asked. House stood and picked up his suitcase.

"Ready."

The rehab floor was divided into four wards. Each ward had shared spaces, staff offices, and bedrooms. There were four bed, two bed and single bed rooms. Clarence brought House to one of the single bed rooms. "You get a private room up here too," he said.

In addition to a bed, the room had a small dresser, a desk, chair, and two small side chairs like those in the detox ward. The walls were pale sage green, and the window had an actual curtain instead of metal blinds.

"OK, House, I have to get back downstairs. When you're done unpacking you should go down to the office at the end of the hall. Good luck, man," Clarence said from the doorway as he left.

House put his clothes in the small dresser. The furniture was institutional, similar to dormitory furniture. He sat on the edge of the bed and stared out the window.

"Hey, House," a familiar voice said. He turned to see the very tall, dark-haired Dr. Coughlin leaning in the doorway holding the rafia handles of a small brown paper shopping bag. "Nice to see you again."

"Can't say the feeling is mutual," he said.

She expected him to be resistant even though he seemed to warm up to her a little the night before. "I have something for you," she said holding the shopping bag out to him.

He took the bag and looked inside. It contained a 3.5" by 5.5" Moleskine notebook, a black ink pen, and a calling card. "What's this?"

"Well, I'm going to ask you to write some things down and I thought you might like a pocket sized notebook instead of the standard 8.5 by 11. Obviously the pen goes with it. The calling card is provided so you can use the phone in closet at the end of the hallway to call family or friends."

House set the bag on the floor next to the bed. He stared out the window.

"How are you feeling?"

"Fine, no nausea, no chills, pain is tolerable," he said making direct eye contact.

"That's not what I meant," she said stepping into the room and closing the door. She walked over to sit in the desk chair. "I am pretty sure you know that."

She could see the apprehension in his body language. Despite his efforts to hide it, his eyes belied fear and mistrust. She seriously had her work cut out for her with this one.

"House, we can talk here or in my office, your choice, but we have to talk. That's part of the program here," she said.

He sighed.

"Look, if you don't want to start with the beginning and talk about your family we can start with why you are here. Do you know why you are here?"

"I'm addicted to Vicodin. I had hallucinations and delusions," he said matter-of-factly.

"OK, so," she started, "why are you you addicted to Vicodin?

"Didn't do your homework, Doc?"

"House, just an FYI, you are going to find it difficult to get a rise out of me that way," she said calmly. "I read your file. I saw Dr. Andersdotter's notes about your leg. Aneurysm, infarction, surgery..."

"And yet you still ask the question..."

Coughlin didn't bite. "So, you are here because you are addicted to Vicodin because you have poorly managed pain? Is that the story we're going with?" Her directness was almost brutal, but at this point with House there was unfortunately no other way.

"No," he looked down.

"OK," she said in a much softer tone. "So, what else?"

"I don't know," he said quietly. It was an honest answer.

"Do you want me to help you figure it out?" she asked.

He nodded and looked away.

"OK," she clasped her hands together. "Tell me about the hallucinations."

House bit his lip. He decided to start at the beginning. "Last year I was in a bus crash. I was drunk. The bartender took my keys. I called Wilson for a ride..."

"Wilson?" she asked.

"A friend," he responded. "His girlfriend answered the phone. He was at the hospital working. I told her to get him, but she came instead. I told her I'd take the bus. I left my cane in the bar, though," he clutched his cane tighter. "so, she brought it to me, on the bus. There was a dump truck... it hit the bus... Anyway, there were a lot of injuries, her leg was impaled, severed an artery... I managed to get her scarf around the leg... makeshift tourniquet, but..." he trailed off.

"But?"

House dropped one hand from the cane to his right thigh. "But, she had taken amantadine before the crash. Multiple organ failure. She died as soon as she was taken off bypass."

"That's really sad," Coughlin said. "What happened to you?"

"Me?"

"Yes, you were in the bus too. What happened to you?"

"Oh, concussion. That's why I couldn't remember that it was Amber who was with me on the bus, or even why I was on the bus..." he trailed off, staring into space. "Until the deep brain stimulation..."

"What?!"

"I had deep brain stimulation, so I could remember what I saw."

"House, whatever would possess... I mean, however did you get another physician to agree to even do such a thing to a person with a head injury?" She was stunned.

"Wilson asked me to, because we didn't know what was wrong with Amber and I couldn't remember what I had seen."

"You could have died!"

"I almost did," he said. "I had a complex partial seizure during the procedure."

"OK," she realized she needed not to let her shock let her get sidetracked, "so, you see Amber in your hallucinations?"

"She was the first one, yes. It was actually kind of cool... at first..."

Coughlin shook her head. "First one?"

"I...," he started, his leg began to throb. It was too early for the Buprenex to be wearing off. Maybe it was from sitting on the institutional bed. Maybe if he got up and walked around... "Can we take a break?"

She knew he needed it. "Sure," she replied. "Let's meet again after group therapy this afternoon."

House cringed, "Group therapy?"

"Yes, and it's not optional. You don't have to say anything if you don't want to, but you do have to attend."


	16. Chapter 16

Lisa Cuddy woke 20 minutes before her alarm would have sounded its wake-up bleat. She laid in bed listening for any little noise that would indicate Rachel was awakening in the nursery. Hearing none she dragged herself out of bed and took a shower. Might as well get a head start.

Rachel started crying just as Cuddy stepped out of the shower. Wrapped in a plush, terry robe with her dark hair dripping onto her shoulders Cuddy lifted the baby out of her crib and nuzzled her face. "Good morning, sweet one," she cooed as she carried her to the changing table. Thank God it's Friday, she thought, as she changed Rachel's diaper.

Having gotten up just a bit early Cuddy was ahead of schedule for their morning routine. She used a few minutes of the extra time while bathing the baby and dressing her, chatting away in the high, sing-song motherese tone that parents use with their infants and young children. Rachel cooed delightedly in response.

Amelia arrived like clockwork, Cuddy kissed her daughter goodbye and she arrived at work a few minutes early. Her calendar was wide open for the day and her only goal had been to review the free clinic's mid-year budget report. The clinic's endowment performance was down and they needed to be very careful about spending.

Just as Cuddy started making notes about potential cost-saving measures for the clinic Wilson knocked on her door. "Yes?"

Wilson looked be sure no one was behind him and said, "They moved him to rehab this morning."

In a surprised tone Cuddy said, "Isn't it a too soon?"

"Well, apparently they have the withdrawal symptoms and pain under control with medication and they feel it is best for him to move out of the detox. So, he could have visitors as early as this afternoon..." Wilson paused.

Cuddy swallowed. Her heart fluttered. Why did she feel so nervous? "Oh, are you going out there?"

"No, I can't today. I have a referral patient coming in this afternoon." He pressed his lips tightly and raised an eyebrow. "But, maybe you could go?"

Cuddy suddenly sensed that Wilson really wanted someone to check on House and make sure he was OK. The number of times Wilson had implied that her only concern was making sure House was OK... and now here he was doing the exact same thing. But then, she thought, in a way House is the brother who actually has a chance to come back from the brink of madness unlike Wilson's biological sibling, a paranoid delusional schizophrenic.

Cuddy nodded, "My schedule is pretty clear. I'll go this afternoon. I'll call Amelia and let her know that I might be late."

Wilson smiled. "Thanks, Lisa. Let me know how it goes."

Amelia couldn't stay late, but Cuddy decided to leave for Pennsylvania just before lunch thinking that she'd be able to get back in plenty of time. On her way out of her office she was almost literally run into by Chris Taub who was heading towards the clinic.

"Dr. Cuddy, sorry," he said.

"Dr. Taub," she acknowledged. "Team doesn't have a patient?" she asked.

"No, so I thought I'd fulfill some more of House's clinic hours."

She was a little surprised that he was continuing to fulfill House's hours rather than banking some for himself. "Thanks, Taub. Where are Foreman and Hadley?"

"Foreman is working on House's charting and Hadley is reading the department mail to see if we have any written referral requests," Taub replied.

Well, at least House's charting would get done. One thing about having Foreman in charge periodically: the paperwork was usually caught up by the time he finished.

"I'm leaving early today," Cuddy told Taub. "Have a good weekend."

Taub smiled. "Thanks, you too."

The drive to Mayfield took almost an hour. Cuddy pulled into the visitor's parking lot at 12:35pm. She looked at her reflection in the rear-view mirror. She looked tired. At least her eyes weren't puffy like they were the day before.

The building certainly looked intimidating due to its 19th century architecture. Cuddy stopped at the switchboard security desk and told the attendant that she was there to visit a patient.

"Patient's name?" the blonde guard asked.

"House," she said. "Gregory House."

"Let me see if he can have visitors today..." the guard picked up the phone.

"Hey, I've got a visitor here for Gregory House. Shall I send her up?" He covered the phone receiver with his hand and asked, "Your name?"

"Dr. Lisa Cuddy," she answered.

"OK, I'll tell her," he said hanging up the phone. He printed her name in the visitor's log. "Sign here," he said pointing to the space next to her printed name. "He's in Rehab C on the third floor. Elevator is at the end of the hall through those doors." He pointed to the main entrance doors. "Before you go up there I have to make sure you aren't carrying any drugs, paraphernalia or weapons." Cuddy offered him her purse and turned her jacket pockets inside out. Satisfied that she wasn't carrying any contraband he told her she could go ahead.

Cuddy was surprised at how quiet it was when the doors opened on the third floor. She looked for the signs for Rehab C and followed them to the appropriate door. Through the window in the door she could see people she assumed were patients sitting at tables in the common area eating lunch. She didn't see House. She opened the door.

"You must be Dr. Cuddy," said a man wearing a Mayfield ID badge on a lanyard around his neck.

"Yes, I'm here to see Hou... Greg House."

"He didn't want to eat lunch out here." he said. "I'll go get him."

Cuddy stood in the hallway adjacent to the common area. She took a deep breath to calm her nerves. She looked down at her shoes. Hmm, somehow she scuffed the toe of the right one.

"Cuddy," he said sounding a little tired and more than a little surprised. She looked up. He looked tired. At least his color was better than when she last saw him.

"House," she smiled warmly, grey eyes sparkling.

"You can visit in the TV room," the staff member offered pointing towards a doorway off the common area.

Cuddy let House lead the way mostly so she could watch his gait. The pain management must be pretty good, she thought. He was not leaning as heavily on his cane.

He turned at the doorway and gestured into the room, "Welcome to my parlor," he said with a tight-lipped grin in an attempt to be funny.

"You look good," she said as she sat in one of the arm chairs.

"Heh, maybe you should be wearing your glasses," he said sitting in the chair next to her.

"Well, you look better anyway," she said.

There was an awkward silence. He clutched his cane and glanced at her surreptitiously. She clutched her purse and glanced at him. When their eyes met he bit his lower lip. He looked like he was about to say something and she tipped her head towards him.

"Cuddy..." he said softly. He looked down, glanced at her, and looked away. "I'm very sorry for..."

"House," she interrupted. "It's OK. Everyone thinks you're..." she stopped short and blanched.

He finished, "...crazy anyway?" Then he added, "Much stronger evidence to support that lately."

She winced. Open mouth, insert Jimmy Choo.

"Well, at least I'm in the right place," he continued as if he was trying to convince himself.

"No one else knows where you are, except human resources and Wilson. I told everyone I suspended you."

"My team?"

"Wilson and I both told them that I suspended you. I put Foreman in charge again. They had a case: teenage girl with Chiari Malformation."

"Interesting," he said.

"So," not wanting to spend a lot of time reviewing Tessa Matthew's case she changed the subject, "are you doing OK in here?"

He looked her in the eye and slowly nodded, "Yeah."

"House, you're doing the right thing," she said reaching out to touch his forearm.

He didn't look at her. He put his hand over hers. "Thanks, Cuddy."

They sat silently together, her hand on his arm, his hand over hers for several minutes. Then she moved her hand and stood up looking at her watch.

"I have to get going... nanny can't stay late tonight," she explained. "Call me if you need anything. Wilson will be coming out on Monday, I think."

"OK, thanks," he said standing to walk out with her.

She turned, looked up into his blue eyes and put her arms around him. "Take care of yourself," she whispered.

"I'm trying," he whispered back.


	17. Chapter 17

Cuddy made it to the parking lot before she started to tear up. House once told her that she sees the world as it is and as it could be, but that she does not see the "giant, gaping chasm in between." With this situation, though, Cuddy felt like she was standing on a precipice looking down into the chasm.

Just as she was about to start her car her cell phone rang. She looked at the caller ID: James Wilson. She took a deep breath and tried to smile. The last thing Wilson needed was to worry about her worrying about House.

"Cuddy," she answered.

"Hi, are you still out there?"

"I'm just leaving now. I'm literally in my car. I was planning to call you when I got home," she said.

"Oh, well, I just thought I'd check in and find out how he's doing."

"He seems OK. He looks tired, but much better than he did. They seem to be doing well controlling the withdrawal symptoms and the pain," she offered. She was trying to think of things to say that wouldn't reveal how concerned she really was.

"Uh-huh," Wilson responded. "How is he really?" He knew her too well not to hear the sad edge in her voice.

She sighed. "He's struggling, but he's really trying this time." Just thinking about the raw, undisguised sadness in House's eyes made her heart break.

"The fact that he's still there is a good sign," Wilson offered.

"It seems like a good place," she said.

"It is," Wilson said. " They have a lot of experience with addicts who need pain management and have other underlying... issues."

"He thinks people think he's crazy," she said.

"Since when has House really cared what anyone thinks of him?" Wilson was a little surprised and thought it was probably more likely that House was afraid he was crazy himself, but Wilson certainly didn't want to tell Cuddy that. She seemed upset enough already.

"Exactly," she said sadly. "I'm glad that you convinced him to come here."

"Lisa, he wouldn't have done this just because I suggested it. If so he would have done this two years ago," Wilson said referring to another particularly low point when House was being persecuted by Michael Tritter.

"Two years ago he wasn't hallucinating and having delusions," she pointed out.

"That's true, but two years ago he also didn't seem to care if there was..." he hesitated to say it because he was not sure that she was ready to hear it, "...more to life either," Wilson said.

And it wasn't just more to life from being pain free. In the past few days Wilson had replayed in his own head certain events of the last year, particularly events that occurred right before he drove House to Mayfield. Although House would certainly never admit it it was pretty clear that House really wasn't just jerking Cuddy around.

"Wilson, I really have to start driving. Amelia can't stay late tonight and I don't want to get stuck in rush hour traffic." Cuddy really was just trying to end the conversation, so she wouldn't start crying in earnest.

"Sorry," he apologized. "Drive carefully. I'll see you Monday."

She hung up her phone and searched in her purse for a tissue. Damn, she thought, get ahold of yourself, Lisa. She wiped her eyes, blew her nose, and started driving.

Back at the hospital, Hadley finished sorting and opening the department mail. She was surprised to discover that House actually did regularly open the mail, so there wasn't much that still needed to be reviewed. There were no referral requests. There were letters from medical device manufacturers, pharmaceutical companies, and medical software companies: the usual advertising.

"Find any referrals?" Foreman asked.

"No," she sighed. "Want some help with the charts?"

"Actually, I'm almost finished," he said. "It seems like he only got lazy about it again in the past few weeks."

"Since Kutner..." she commented.

Foreman nodded.

"Eric, do you really think Cuddy suspended House?"

He looked up from the file he had in his hands. "Yes, I do. House was out of line."

"I just mean... doesn't it seem like he was more than just out of line?"

Foreman looked at her with a raised eyebrow.

"Didn't you notice how much Vicodin he was taking the other day?"

"Remy, he's been taking too much Vicodin for as long as I have known him."

"Yeah, but not like this. And he seemed... odd."

Foreman laughed. "You just noticed that House is odd? How long have you been here?"

"Eric, seriously, I think something happened to him and I think Cuddy and Wilson are hiding it."

"Let it go, Remy. House is just being House. He's done this before. Once Cuddy calms down and he's done sulking he'll be back."

"Maybe we should go check on him."

"No," Foreman said adamantly, "no way. I'm not going to House's apartment, and I hope you don't either. Nothing good comes of engaging House while he's throwing a tantrum."

"House is throwing a tantrum?" Taub asked walking into the conference room.

Probably," Foreman answered Taub, "which, as I said, is all the more reason that we should all stay away from him."

"I just think one of us should go over to his apartment and make sure he's OK," Hadley said.

Taub raised his eyebrows and looked from Hadley to Foreman and back. "I think we should avoid getting ourselves into hot water with Cuddy," Taub finally added.

"I'm sure Wilson is checking up on him," Foreman said. Hadley got up and headed for the door. Foreman asked, "Where are you going?"

"To ask Wilson if he's checked on House," she replied.

Taub was mildly amused by the irritated expression on Foreman's face as Foreman followed Hadley out the door. It appeared that having Hadley express so much concern for House was really getting under Foreman's skin. Taub followed them, because, if nothing else, he thought it might be interesting to watch Foreman and Hadley.

Hadley knocked on Wilson's closed office door.

"Come in," Wilson called out. He knew he'd have to keep it cool when all three members of House's team walked into the office. Had they show up at his door 45 minutes sooner they might have overheard him talking to Cuddy on the phone. "Need a consult?"

"We don't have a patient," Hadley started. "We... well, I was wondering if you've talked to House since Cuddy suspended him?" Her concern was quite apparent on her lovely face. Wilson looked behind her at Foreman and Taub, neither of whom appeared to be the least bit concerned. In fact, Foreman looked like he was attempting to pretend that he wasn't seriously irritated and Taub looked... amused.

"Yes," Wilson lied. "Why?" He wondered what spurred this sudden interest in House.

"Well, I don't know if you noticed, but he seemed to be taking a lot more Vicodin than usual the other day," she started.

"House takes a lot of Vicodin every day," he responded.

"But, not like that..." she started.

Foreman interrupted her, "See, I told you. He's fine. Nothing out of the ordinary, just House being House."

Wilson went out on a limb, "You can call him if you want, but don't expect him to answer. He's pretty pissed off that Cuddy won't back down on the suspension."

Taub squinted at Wilson. He had a sense that that was a dare. "Don't you think he deserves to be suspended?"

"Of course," Wilson replied, "but I don't think any of us can convince House of that." Taub seemed satisfied with the answer. "Anything else?" he asked. He needed to get rid of them before he said something one of them would be able tell wasn't the truth.

"No, thanks." Hadley replied with a tight-lipped smile.

"Have a good weekend," Wilson said.

"You too," Foreman said.

The three members of House's team returned to the diagnostics conference room in silence.

"He was lying," Taub said.

"Yeah," Hadley said. "Big time."

"You're right," Foreman admitted.

As soon as he assumed Hadley, Foreman and Taub were out of earshot Wilson frantically dialed Cuddy's home phone number and reached Amelia, the nanny.

"Please," he said in an urgent tone, "tell her to call me, Dr. Wilson, on my cell as soon as she gets home. It's very important."

Shit, shit, shit! Somehow they figured out that he wasn't being completely honest with them. He knew from their expressions and their hasty retreat. Wilson rubbed his hands over his face. Think, think, think... Now what was he going to do?

Knowing that those three individuals had all been involved in House's own "investigations" into their patients' lives he had no doubt what the next step for the three Houseketeers would be. He needed to get over to House's apartment immediately. He grabbed his briefcase, peeked out into the hall and made a mad dash for the elevators.

He just pulled his Volvo out of the parking lot when his cell phone started ringing. He flipped the phone open and pressed the Speaker button.

"This is Dr. Wilson," he said hoping that if it was a patient he didn't sound too frenzied.

"Wilson? It's Cuddy. What's wrong?"

"We have a big problem," he said.

As Wilson drove across Princeton explaining the situation to Cuddy House's team sat around the diagnostics conference room table talking about House ,Wilson and Cuddy.

"Cuddy left early today," Taub said. "Do you think that's suspicious?"

Foreman looked skeptical. He crossed his arms. "Cuddy has a young infant at home. Who knows why she left early. Besides, Cuddy did seem to be genuinely irate at House's behavior."

"Cuddy is always irate at House's behavior, and then she struts in here to talk to him in her very well fitted Dolce & Gabana suits..." Hadley said.

Taub and Foreman both looked at Hadley with surprised expressions.

Hadley rolled her eyes. "Oh, please, don't tell me that you've never noticed," she admonished.

"Yeah, so, anyway," Taub redirected, "the question is, is House holed up in his apartment, fuming over being suspended or is he somewhere else entirely?"

"One way to find out," Foreman said. "We go to House's apartment."


	18. Chapter 18

House walked with Cuddy as far as the double doors to the hall outside the ward. He knew she was upset. He wasn't so far out of his mind that he couldn't feel the tension in her arms and the way she she was breathing when she hugged him.

"You coming back?" he asked quietly just before they reached the doors.

"Of course," she answered looking up in time to catch a glimpse of the sadness in his eyes before he looked away. "I've already asked Amelia, my nanny, if she can stay late one evening next week."

He gave a quick nod. "See you."

She walked out the door and didn't look back through the window, not even before she went around the corner to the elevators.

"Time for group, House," Zophia, the Ward C nurse on duty called to him as she moved the common room chairs into a circle.

He closed his eyes and leaned on his cane. He'd be fine saying nothing about himself. Could he avoid saying anything about the other patients?

There were 16 patients in each rehab ward. House had not seen all of the other Ward C patients at the same time until group therapy time. He sat with his back to the hallway in what he assumed was the seat opposite the therapist's in the circle.

House looked around the circle at his rehab cohort. In the chair next to the assumed therapist's chair was a slightly overweight, nervous middle-aged woman who didn't look up and kept twisting a lock of her long, stringy dyed blonde hair around her fingers. Next to her was a maybe 20 year old kid with very curly brown hair wearing flip-flops and a haughty, annoyed expression. Next to him was a very pale, thin young woman with an obvious burn scar that started just under her left ear whose jet black hair was styled in a short, blunt bob and whose almost colorless blue eyes looked vacant. House continued to observe each of the other patients. Addicts all, he thought.

Dr. Coughlin arrived last and, as House suspected she would, sat in the chair straight across from the one he had chosen. She smiled warmly and looked around the circle. "We have a new resident today, so why don't we all introduce ourselves," she started.

House zoned out as the other patients began their introductions. He caught a few names here and there. The pale, scarred girl's name was Selene, and she spoke in such a gravelly, breathy tone that House suspected her vocal cords had been damaged by the same fire that left the burn on her neck. The haughty flip-flop kid's name was Auden... clearly literary parents. The nervous, hair twister's name was Jane... plain Jane. House begrudgingly uttered his monosyllabic surname when the introductions reached him and then zoned out again.

"OK," Coughlin said. "Today we're going to talk about nutrition..." she began.

House furrowed his brow and looked up at her. It was then that he realized that this wasn't actually group talk therapy. This was some kind of psycho-educational therapy. Great... well, at least he didn't have to pay attention, because he didn't have to participate.

At the end of the group session as the other patients helped Zophia move the tables and chairs back to their original arrangement Coughlin gestured for House to come with her as she walked towards the staff office area. He followed somewhat reluctantly.

"I thought you might like to meet in my office instead of your room," she said as she unlocked the door.

"How about not meeting at all?" he grumbled under his breath.

"Not a chance," she heard him and replied.

Her office was relatively small, furnished with a desk, file cabinets, a small coffee table, three arm chairs, a small sofa and several bookcases. It smelled vaguely of wintergreen. "Have a seat," she said as she put the folder she had in her hands during the group session in the top drawer of one of the file cabinets.

House sat in one of the arm chairs and leaned forward to look at the spines of the books on the nearby shelf. Mostly psychology and psychiatry books about addiction, mental illness and treatment. But the first book on the lowest shelf was Mircea Eliade's "Cosmos and History: the Myth of the Eternal Return." Interesting.

"Eliade was an antiSemite," he commented.

"House," she gently scolded. "We can talk about philosophers and the merits of my reading choices some other time."

He feigned innocence and continued to look at the bookshelf while she retrieved his file from a locked file cabinet. He guessed that her undergraduate degree was probably in philosophy based on the collection of books on the bottom shelf.

"OK, where were we?" she sat down.

He said nothing, so she took the lead, "You were talking about the bus crash, your friend Wilson, his girlfriend Amber, your head injury..."

He fidgeted with his cane. He rubbed his forehead. "Ancient history," he commented.

"Mm-hmm," she said. "How long ago did it happen?"

He squinted, looked up at the ceiling and said, "About a year ago."

"I wouldn't really call that ancient," she said.

"Well... you're a psychiatrist. You wouldn't."

"Fair enough," she said. "So, House, you told me that Wilson asked you to undergo deep brain stimulation..."

"Yes, it was the only way I could remember what I saw just before and during the crash. I knew I saw something, a symptom, a clue to what was wrong..." He said this as if it made perfect sense for him to have had his already fractured skull opened and a neurostimulator inserted into his traumatized brain.

"It was an extremely risky procedure."

"Yes, I've already told you, I suffered a complex partial seizure..."

"Why would you undergo such a dangerous procedure?" she asked.

"Because," he said in an exasperated tone, "it was the only way I could remember what happened..."

"I didn't ask you what it would do," she interrupted. "I asked you why you did it."

He grasped his cane more tightly and leaned forward as if he might leap out of the chair, "Why do you think I did it?" he asked in a heated tone.

She paused, looked at him very directly with her obsidian-dark eyes and asked, "Would you have done that for just anyone... just any patient... just any patient's family member?"

"I...," he looked down at his hands clutching the cane. A lot of people would have said that House would have done it for anyone, because for House the driving factor was solving the puzzle, not saving the person.

She leaned forward in her chair, her riotous steel-tinged curls tumbling over her shoulders. "I don't think you would have," she said in a sad, soft tone. "I think your friend asked you to do it and so you did," she said calmly. She waited a moment and asked, "Am I right?"

House took a deep breath. He nodded once, almost imperceptibly.

"What do you think it says about you that you would willingly risk your own life to save someone else?"

He cleared his throat, "I didn't..." he stopped.

"You didn't risk your life?" she tipped her head curiously.

"No, I didn't save her life."

"So," Coughlin sat back in her chair again, "she died despite everything that you did."

House nodded.

"And that negates everything that you did to save her? Makes it meaningless?" She was really pushing him, but he really needed to be pushed.

House stared at the edge of the coffee table in front of him. After an interminable pause he said quietly, "Lonely, misanthropic drug addicts should die in bus crashes and young do-gooders in love who get dragged out of their apartment in the middle of the night should walk away clean." He glanced up at her quickly and then looked back down.

"House," she leaned down into his field of view, "it wasn't your fault that she died."

He looked up. "She never would have been on that bus..." his voice broke.

"It wasn't your fault that she died."

"But, even if I remembered sooner... there was nothing we could do..." He was lost in memory.

"House, look at me," she said, "why do you think that you have been seeing Amber in your hallucinations?"

His head was pounding, his leg was throbbing and he thought his heart was going to beat its way out of his chest. "I don't know!" he said angrily.

"I think you do," she said and repeated the question very calmly.

"You think I know?!" he said through clenched teeth. He was clutching the cane so tightly that his knuckles were white.

She lowered the pitch of her voice noticeably and in a very soothing tone asked, "OK, what do you think you should feel?"

"Life isn't fair. Bad things happen to good people..." he started spouting platitudes.

"House," she interrupted. "How do you really feel?"

He gasped, struggling to keep it together. "Guilty," he managed to answer.

She nodded, grabbed a box of tissues from the bookshelf behind her and handed them to him.

Coughlin quietly gave House time to regain his composure. Another patient would be coming to her office soon, and she didn't want to end her meeting with House on such a difficult and sad note. It had not escaped her notice that as he became more upset during the conversation he touched the quadriceps area of his right leg. She wondered if it was simply reflexive or if he was experiencing increased pain.

After a few minutes she began softly, "House, I know that you probably do not want to hear what I am about to say, but I ask that you listen anyway." She paused hoping he would look up, but continued even though he did not. "It is normal to feel guilty when you survive and someone else dies, and it is also normal for a physician to feel grief and even guilt when a patient dies, especially when the physician has a relationship with the patient. So, my point is, what you are feeling is normal."

"Not for me," he claimed.

She smiled sadly, "Well, even if it's not how you usually feel it is how you are feeling now and that is what is important. So, your homework..."

He cringed. Homework.

"...is to start using the Moleskine notebook I gave you as a journal. I want you to write whatever comes to mind, no self-editing. Think of it as a diagnostic tool that will help me to help you."

He rolled his eyes, but mumbled, "OK."

"I want to meet with you again tomorrow morning at 11am," she said as she stood. She watched him closely as he rose from the chair and walked towards her office door. His limp was more pronounced than it had been on the way too her office. She knew then that the heightened emotion of their conversation had not simply triggered an automatic response to touch the leg, but had triggered an increase in the pain. He really was going to be a big challenge in so many ways.


	19. Chapter 19

At first Cuddy thought that maybe she should go to House's apartment and let the team see her there, but she and Wilson both agreed that that would be even more suspicious since she was supposed to be so angry with House. Plus, Wilson was almost there anyway. Though, they also agreed that the team should not see him there, so he parked around the block and walked. Cuddy suggested that if Wilson turned the lights on in House's bedroom and played one of House's records loudly that maybe they'd just leave.

As he opened the door to 221B Wilson began to doubt that that would actually deter House's team from their pursuit of this mystery. They'd probably just break into the apartment under the pretense of being concerned for House's well-being. What could he do to convince them not to enter the apartment?

Wilson tossed his keys on the kitchen counter, hands on hips and exhaled loudly. Looking around the kitchen he noticed a business card and a hand-written note both held by a magnetic clip stuck to the refrigerator door. He removed the note and the card from the magnet. The only thing printed on the face of the card was a glossy pink rose. The only thing printed on the back was a phone number. He read the note:

"House, if you need someone to watch over you again... any time... call me. ----Jolene."

Wilson carried the card into the living room, grabbed the phone and dialed the number. When a woman answered he blurted, "Uh, hi, Jolene, this is Dr.... well, it doesn't matter, but I'm a friend of Greg House... please don't hang up... I need a favor... um, not that kind of favor... it's for House... Could you come to House's apartment?"

Jolene was rather fond of the curmudgeonly Dr. House. For one thing, the only thing he asked her to do was watch him sleep and make sure he didn't stop breathing while doing so-- something about sleep apnea. For another, he paid incredibly well. She thought his friend sounded genuinely distressed, so she called a cab and headed over to the apartment where she had spent several nights watching House breathe.

When she arrived and Wilson opened the door she remembered him. Tall, but not quite as tall as House, boyish face, warm brown eyes. She remembered how awkward he seemed when she opened the door and he saw her there the first time. It was kind of cute. This time he looked kind of freaked out.

"Hey," she said, "where's House?"

"He's not here."

"Um," she reached in her coat pocket for the canister of Mace pepper spray she carried, "where is he?"

Wilson put his hands up in a passive gesture, "Look, he's in the hospital... I mean he's a patient in a hospital--not where we work. It's really important that his privacy in this matter be maintained, and the three doctors who work for him are on their way here right now to... spy on him." Wilson knew how utterly ridiculous this sounded. He furrowed his brow and looked at her pleadingly.

"Uh-huh," she said looking around. She noticed some of House's shirts still on the hangers laying on the back of the sofa. "So, what do you want me to do exactly?"

Wilson was flummoxed. He wasn't actually sure what he wanted her to do. "Uh, well... I don't know. Something that will prevent them from breaking in here to see if he's OK."

She took her hand out of her coat pocket and walked up to the sofa. She patted the wrinkled blue shirt on the top of the pile. "I have an idea," she said her eyes twinkling.

As Jolene explained her plan to Wilson; Foreman, Hadley and Taub walked separately out of the hospital, but met in the parking lot. They decided to ride together in Foreman's car.

"Should we really be doing this?" Taub asked as they drove away from PPTH.

"A little late to have second thoughts," Foreman said looking in the rearview mirror at Taub in the back seat.

"Yeah, but I was just thinking: if he really is there he might be seriously pissed at us for showing up. And, House seriously pissed... he could make our lives hell," Taub said. Imagine if House had actually been upset with them when he was conducting his investigations into their personal lives, Taub thought.

"Well," Hadley commented, "we don't have to ring the doorbell and let him know we're there."

"If we park across the street and the lights are on inside we might be able to see in the windows," Foreman added.

"And if there are no lights on?" Taub asked.

"One of us is going to let herself into the apartment..." Foreman said looking at Hadley.

"Me?! By myself?!" she responded.

"This was your idea," he reminded her. "And people will be less suspicious of a beautiful woman entering House's apartment than they would be of me, or Taub."

"He has a point," Taub said looking at Hadley.

"Thanks, guys," she said.

Wilson used House's phone to call for Chinese food and was told that it would only take 20 minutes. It was part of Jolene's plan. She disappeared into House's bedroom and reappeared moments later wearing only the wrinkled blue shirt and a pair of House's wool socks. Jolene was very petite and the shirt fell to her mid-thighs. She left the top three buttons undone, but buttoned the rest, and pulled her long, dark hair up into a practical ponytail. If she had been wearing leggings and a belt she would have looked 80's retro.

"So, when the delivery guy comes I am going to step out of the apartment just like this to get the food," she said as she folded the cuffs up since the sleeves fell down over her hands.

"And, I'm going to hide in the bathroom?" Wilson asked.

"Yes," she confirmed, "with the shower on, and we should have some music..." She pulled an album out of a shelf, slid the record out of its sleeve and set it gently on the turntable. She studied the back of the jacket and exclaimed "Perfect!" as she moved the needle towards the middle of the grooved vinyl and the Rolling Stones' "Can I Get a Witness" started playing.

Wilson grabbed his jacket and headed for the bathroom. He turned the shower on and stood with his ear pressed to the door.

Jolene cautiously peeked out the slit in the living room curtains as she waited for the Chinese food delivery. She saw the dark blue sedan parallel park across the street and knew it must have been House's staff members when no one got out. Who were these people that they'd spy on their boss?

As Foreman parallel parked his car in a spot across the street from House's apartment Hadley said, "The lights are on in there."

Taub squinted trying to see into the living room windows. "We should have waited until after dark," he said, "because it's too bright out to really see anything in there."

"Look," Hadley said pointing at a red Honda Civic hatchback that pulled up and parked across the street from them. Affixed to the rusty driver's door was a magnetic sign with "Golden Dragon Chinese Restaurant Delivery Service" printed on it.

"That could be going anywhere," Foreman said as they watched the door open and the driver juggle two bags of food and a 2 liter bottle of Coke.

Hadley turned and gave him an "I told you so" look when the driver walked up the front steps to House's building.

House's team watched in dismay as a petite brunette woman stepped out of House's apartment wearing what appeared to be a men's button-down dress shirt, socks and apparently little else.

Taub smirked, Foreman raised his eyebrows and Hadley's jaw dropped. "She..." Hadley started.

"...just came out of House's apartment." Taub finished.

"And that's more than enough food for one person. I doubt she's housesitting," Foreman said.

"More like House-sitting," Taub said dryly.

"OK, that was... more than I needed to know," Hadley said. "Let's get out of here."

When Jolene saw the Golden Dragon delivery car park at the curb she went to the door and stepped out far enough that she was certain the passengers in the blue sedan could see her. She paid for the food, gave the driver a large tip from Wilson's wallet, and carried everything back inside. She set the food on the island in the kitchen and went back to the living room window.

"They're gone!" she shouted gleefully. Wilson came out of the bathroom looking a bit damp from the steam.

"I don't have any plans for dinner," she said. "So, if you don't mind, I'll change and then..." she looked towards the kitchen.

"Oh, sure, yes, and thank you. Thank you very much."

While she prepared her dinner and gave Rachel her bottle Cuddy waited to hear from Wilson. She hoped that House's team had seen the lights on in his apartment and left. The phone rang just as she was taking her eggplant lasagna out of the oven.

"Hello?" she answered as she cradled the phone against her shoulder.

"Hi, Cuddy, it's Wilson. I think it worked," he said.

"Oh, thank God," she said.

Wilson decided not to share the complete details of the ruse with Cuddy. He did not mention Jolene at all. He simply told her that Foreman drove up, parked across the street for a while and then left. What Cuddy didn't know about House's "acquaintances" wouldn't hurt her.

Actually, after he called Cuddy, while he was chatting with Jolene over Chinese food in House's living room Wilson discovered that Jolene was an escort not... exactly what he thought. House, she told Wilson, found her number in an ad the local alternative newspaper. Jolene said she had been a student at The New School in New York, but had to take a year off due to financial difficulties and was supplementing her income by providing "perfectly legal" services that she referred to as "dating for fee." In fact, she rushed out the door without eating her fortune cookie, because she had to prepare for a "date."

Wilson washed the dishes, and took the trash out to the dumpster. He turned on the TV, left on a few lights and walked back around the block to his car satisfied that he and Jolene had kept House's secret safe.

Cuddy hoped that House's team's curiosity had been satiated and that they would not attempt to visit him at home again. In the past more than one person, Wilson included, had told her that she was always protecting House. It was often not meant as a compliment, but it was often true. This time, though, she felt that he needed to be protected more than he ever had in the past.

She was glad it was Friday. She would not have to rush to work the next morning and would have plenty of time to spend with Rachel over the weekend. Focusing on her daughter kept her mind from racing with worry about House.

As they drove back to PPTH Foreman told Hadley and Taub that he thought the best course of action was to leave well enough alone and focus on their work.

"We don't have a patient," Taub said.

"I'm sure we will soon enough," Foreman responded. "In the meantime, you can continue to cover House's clinic hours.

"I'll check with the ER to see if they need any help. With Cameron away for a couple of weeks they might be grateful for some assistance," Hadley offered.


	20. Chapter 20

Back in his room, House closed the door and sat on the bed. His head hurt, his leg hurt, and he felt like he was going to lose what little he had eaten of his lunch. Worse than any of those things was the regret he felt for actually having said out loud that he felt guilty for Amber's death. Intellectually he did know that it was not his fault that she died. He did not prescribe the amantadine. He did not force her to get on the bus. He did not cause the accident. Yet somehow there it was... guilt. Guilt and grief.

He removed the Moleskine notebook and the pen from the paper bag and opened to the first smooth, lined page. On it he wrote only the words: guilt and grief. He closed the book and threw it onto the desk across the room.

He wanted Vicodin, or a drink, or... a piano. He wondered if there was one somewhere in the building. Maybe he'd ask Coughlin at their next appointment.

House laid down on the bed, stared up at the white ceiling tiles and fell asleep from mental exhaustion. It was not, however, a restful sleep. As soon as he hit REM stage he began to relive the night of the bus crash. Most horrifying was that knew what was about to occur, but could do nothing to stop the events from unfolding just as they had the first time and he could not wake himself from the nightmare.

"House!," someone was practically shouting over a loud noise while shaking his shoulder. "House! Wake up!"

It took him a minute to wake up enough realize the loud noise in the room was his own voice yelling in an almost-scream and that the person shaking him was Zophia, the rehab nurse. He stopped yelling, opened his eyes, saw the room spiraling, and clamped his eyes shut again.

"Are you OK?" she asked. She still had her hand on his shoulder.

"Dizzy," he said.

"You haven't eaten much today. Your blood sugar is probably low," she said. "You were asleep when dinner came and Dr. Coughlin told us to let you sleep and give you something to eat when you woke up. I can order something for you from the kitchen."

"What time is it?" he asked opening one eye just a slit to find the room was no longer spinning. He opened his eyes and started to sit up. Instinctively he reached down to move his leg with his hands.

"It's 7pm," she told him. "How's your leg pain?"

"Fine," he grumbled.

She looked at him over the top of her glasses, "Uh-huh and I have ocean-front property for sale in North Philly."

"Six," he answered before she came up with anymore witty, sarcastic remarks.

"I'll get you some Buprenex with that food," she said as she left the room.

Great, he wanted to be jabbed in the hip with his meal. Creates just the right mood for eating, he thought. He rubbed his hands over his face and realized that in addition to yelling he had also apparently been crying in his sleep.

"Ask her about the piano." Kutner nudged gently from one of the side chairs.

House ignored him, hobbled into his private bathroom, turned on the cold water in the sink and splashed hands full onto his face. Sputtering from the shock of the cold water he looked at his reflection in the mirror. The withdrawal symptoms were subsiding even as the drugs controlling them wore off, but he looked worse. He wiped his face on a towel and returned to the room.

He sat at the desk and picked up the small notebook and the pen. He turned to the second page, rotated the book 90 degrees and drew 2 groups of 5 dark, horizontal lines across the top/side of the page and connected the groups at the left edge with a brace. If he couldn't play at least he could record the music in his head on paper.

Three pages later Zophia returned with a tray. The food actually smelled good. "They fried you some chicken, whipped up some mashed potatoes and heated up a little leftover green beans almondine," she said. "I brought you a bottle of water too," she said reaching into her scrub coat pocket to remove a tiny 8oz water bottle. She set the tray on the desk next to him. On the edge of the tray was a capped syringe. "And, your Buprenex," she added.

He stood and leaned against the desk as she administered the injection. The pain relief was good. The hassle of receiving a deep intramuscular injection every 6 hours was not. He decided to ask Coughlin about switching to an oral medication for pain management.

Wincing from the jab, but appreciative of the extra effort it took for her to get him a meal and ensure that his medication schedule was kept he thanked her.

"Just bring your tray out to the common area when you're done," she said. "Some of the other residents are planning to watch movies in the TV room later if you're interested."

He nodded as Zophia left the room, but had no intention of joining the other residents in the TV room. It wasn't Friday night in a college dorm and he had no interest in getting to know the other patients.

"You should at least go sit in the room with them," Kutner admonished. "That looks good, by the way," he said as he watched House bite into a juicy piece of chicken.

"I am not going to go sit in front of the TV with those people and pretend that we're all hanging out together by choice," House responded.

"You're spending too much time alone in this room," Kutner warned.

"I'm not alone. You're here," House remarked.

"That," Kutner said, "is kind of my point."


	21. Chapter 21

Saturday began bright, warm and sunny. The morning light through the window in Darcy Coughlin's small office bounced off a crystal that hung on a filament from the curtain rod and scattered rainbows around the room. In preparation for their appointment, Coughlin took House's file out of the locked cabinet behind her desk and opened it to look at the notes Zophia had left for her. Apparent nightmare, increased pain, and self-inflicted social isolation. At least he ate the meal Zophia brought to him. Coughlin hoped that he had also written something, anything, in the notebook, but based on his reaction to the suggestion she assumed that he probably refused to do the homework.

At precisely 11am House knocked on her office door. She told him to come in and have a seat and was not surprised that he sat in the same chair in which he had sat the day before. He looked exhausted. She was surprised to see that in addition to his cane he was clutching the small, black notebook.

"How are you feeling this morning?" she asked as she sat down.

"Fine," he responded.

"House, when I ask that question it is not merely a social nicety."

He sighed. "I'm fine," he insisted.

"OK," she said. "I see you have the notebook with you. May I see?"

He somewhat reluctantly handed it to her. She flipped open the cover and read the first page. Guilt and grief... not surprising considering the conversation the day before. Turning to the second page, however...

"What is this?" she asked holding up the notebook with the second page open.

"College educated, finished Medical School and a residency training program and you haven't seen musical notation before?" he asked sarcastically.

"Touché," she said and quickly moved on not wanting to engage him in a battle of sarcastic wit. "What piece of music is this?"

"I wrote it yesterday," he said. "You said to write whatever came to mind. That's what came to mind."

"Is this for piano?" she asked. "I see it's a grand staff."

Well, well, Dr. Coughlin wasn't completely ignorant after all. He leaned forward and said, "Yes."

"Would you like to play it?" she asked.

"Is there a piano here?" he asked in response. She saw an excited flicker like a blue flame briefly dance in his eyes.

"I wouldn't have asked you if there wasn't," she replied. "It's on the second floor in the auditorium. I can bring you down there." She stood and gestured to the door.

Leaving the rehab ward was like escaping without breaking any rules and House was elated to know that there was a piano in the building. He tried not to seem too excited about it for fear of giving away too much of his inner workings to the shrink.

They rode the elevator down to the second floor and walked the long hallway to the auditorium in silence. She watched his gait and wondered if maybe some physical therapy might be helpful. When they reached the auditorium she opened the door and motioned for him to enter.

On the stage in the surprisingly spacious auditorium was a fully restored, rosewood Steinway & Sons Music Room Grand Model B, a Semi-Concert Grand piano. House was rather astonished to see an antique piano sitting on a stage in a mental hospital.

"Lovely, isn't it?" Coughlin asked as they walked towards the stage. "I think it was built in the early 20th century. About ten years ago the family of a patient donated it to the hospital and paid to have the auditorium remodeled, made larger and more fitting of the instrument. There is actually an endowment that supports its care and maintenance, so it is always in tune."

House walked up the steps to the stage, sat on the bench and leaned down to set his cane gently on the floor. He ran his hands down the natural ivory keys testing the tuning. It was in perfect condition. He tested the heavy brass pedals... excellent responsiveness.

Coughlin sat in the front row and watched her patient. She couldn't resist smiling as she watched him. He seemed mesmerized by the instrument.

He looked down at his hands and started to play. Coughlin still held his notebook and a quick glance told her that the melancholy piece that he was playing was the piece written on the pages of the Moleskine. He continued to play past the point where the notation ended in the notebook. It was hauntingly beautiful and so moving that she found herself on the verge of tears. Just a short time earlier she had asked him how he felt and now he was giving her the answer.

At the end of the piece he looked over at her and when he saw her expression he looked away. Damn. That was even more revealing than blurting out that he felt guilty and he knew it.

"That was beautiful," she said. "How about we make a deal?"

He turned towards her without rising from the bench. "...a deal?"

"Yes," she said as she stood and walked to the stage. "The deal is, you keep writing whatever comes to mind, music or words, and we'll spend half of every appointment down here instead of up in my office. But, you have to keep writing, or we spend our entire time together upstairs."

House looked up at the ceiling. It was ornately painted. The auditorium had been remodeled to resemble a Victorian era theater. He took a deep breath and exhaled loudly. "OK."

"I do want to finish today in my office, though," she added.

"Ah, the catch," he said under his breath as he retrieved his cane from the floor and stood.

"Come on, House, I don't want either of us to miss lunch due to this appointment running over."

He supposed there wasn't much choice and propelled himself down the steps from the stage as quickly as he could. "Hey," he said as he reached her in front of the stage, "any chance you can prescribe something other than IM buprenorphine for pain management?"

"That requires a consult from one of the doctors downstairs. Hospital policy. I think Dr. Krawiec is on this weekend. I'll ask him."

When they were seated in her office again Coughlin started bluntly by asking House to tell her about Amber. She clarified her request, "Not just the details of her death. Tell me about her. What was she like? She was dating your friend Wilson. Is that how you met her?"

House took a deep breath, "No, Amber was one of seven internship candidate finalists in my department. I only had 2 spots available and she didn't make the final cut." He decided not to mention that he referred to Amber as the Cutthroat Bitch.

"So, she met your friend Wilson through you then?" she asked.

"I suppose you could think of it that way. They didn't start seeing each other until sometime after she was cut."

"Was that awkward?" she asked.

"Awkward?" he asked. House really wanted to stop talking about Amber. He fidgeted with his cane.

"You know, awkward because she hadn't been accepted into your internship program, so essentially you rejected her, and then she shows up as your friend's girlfriend."

House remembered the day he discovered that Wilson and Amber were dating. Awkward wasn't the word he would choose. "It was pretty unbelievable, actually," he said putting it mildly.

"Oh?"

"Well, she wasn't his type, exactly." House clarified.

Coughlin raised an eyebrow. "His type?"

"Wilson has been married three times and all three of his wives were needy, kind of helpless in some way... Amber was neither needy nor helpless. She was..." he stopped.

"She was... what?"

"She was a cutthroat bitch," he said. Coughlin noted a hint of admiration in his tone.

"How so?"

House related a couple of stories from her time in the internship competition that he felt best clarified the reason that she garnered the appellation Cutthroat Bitch. Coughlin heard both admiration and annoyance in his voice. He seemed to admire her tenacity and drive, but found her unwillingness to be wrong annoying. Clearly House had attempted to mentor this young woman.

"I see," Coughlin said. "So, tell me about Wilson."

House leaned forward holding his cane horizontally in both hands. "Wilson... Wilson is never boring. I suppose it should not have been a surprise that he..." he stopped and stood the cane back upright.

"He what?" she asked.

"It should not have been a surprise that he fell in love with her," House responded.

"Were you surprised?"

He nodded. "She just wasn't his type..."

"You said that before, but, you also just said he fell in love with her. When did you realize that?"

He clenched his jaw. He closed his eyes and saw Wilson's face as they walked into the room at Princeton General where Amber lay unconscious and dying for reasons her doctors there could not understand. He saw Wilson grief-stricken in the back of the ambulance as they rushed to transport her to Princeton-Plainsboro. He saw Wilson hovering helplessly during the differentials and while they attempted to treat her. He saw Wilson distraught in his office asking him to undergo deep brain stimulation.

"House?"

"Not until it was too late," he said softly.

"So, after the bus crash?" she asked.

House nodded. "She loved him too," he added. "Also did not really believe that until... well literally while we were on the bus together."

"Really?"

He took a very deep breath, exhaled through pursed lips and rubbed his forehead. He was beginning to get a headache again. Coughlin watched his shoulders tense and his posture change as he grasped the cane more tightly. "When someone has a really annoying habit only those who truly love them are willing to accept them despite the habit," he said making direct eye contact.

"I don't understand," she said looking puzzled.

"I'm..." he started with a surprisingly self-conscious almost laugh. "I'm Wilson's annoying habit," he explained. "Amber was willing to put up with me, even drunk, because she loved Wilson. It says something about her," he added softly.

"But, you didn't know this until that night?" she asked.

"Getting a little repetitious, aren't you?" he asked in an attempt to deflect the line of questioning.

She ignored the deflection. "So, you didn't know that she truly loved him until you were on the bus with her, then the bus crashed, you were seriously injured and could not remember what happened, she was critically injured and suffering from mysterious complications—your area of expertise as a physician," she summarized, "you discovered, as a result of these horrendous circumstances, that your friend was deeply in love with this woman and he asked you to risk your life to save her, you agreed to risk your life, and followed through, almost dying in the process, and she died anyway. Right?"

It was a pretty stark reality when laid out that way. House nodded.

"What happened after?" she asked.

"After she died?" he asked.

"Yes, after she died. What happened?"

"There was a funeral, but I missed it since my brain almost came out through my ear," he said sarcastically.

She shot him a disapproving look, one eyebrow raised and cleared her throat.

He sighed. "I spent several weeks recovering from the skull fracture and brain bleed."

"And Wilson?" she asked.

"Wilson took two months off from work, and then he left for a while." His tone was nonchalant, but his body language told an entirely different story.

Unfortunately Dr. Coughlin had scheduled a patient during her lunch hour, which meant any minute there would be a knock on the door. She thought it was a good place to give him a break anyway.

She looked at her watch. "We've run out of time. I'm here tomorrow, though, because it's my weekend to cover the rehab wards, so I'd like to meet with you at 10am."

He sighed heavily and nodded.

"We'll go down to the auditorium," she hoped it was incentive for him to continue thinking and writing.

"OK," he said as he pulled himself up on his cane.

"I will talk to to Dr. Krawiec about the pain meds," she added.

"Thanks," he said.


	22. Chapter 22

Before sunrise on Saturday James Wilson awakened alone in the bed he once shared with Amber Volakis. He lay in bed waiting for the sunlight to leak around the edges of the closed curtains and thought about the events of the past year beginning, of course with Amber's death. The anniversary of her death was only a few days away. There were still times when he couldn't believe that she was gone, and times that her absence added an additional element of sadness to relatively unrelated situations, like when after more than ten years he finally located his brother Daniel.

Wilson rubbed his eyes. He felt particularly painfully reminded of that void in his life when he first discovered that Daniel was alive and being held in the psychiatric ward at New York Mercy. He was happy that Danny hadn't died on the streets, but sad to discover that his brother's schizophrenia had been untreated for all of those years and he was therefore entirely out of touch with reality. Wilson felt that he had no one with whom he could share the experience. Sure, House tried in his Houseian way, but House persisted in behaving as he usually did once his team called and their patient's case became more interesting. And then sometime after they returned to PPTH House even suggested that Wilson was dating Danny's nurse Julieta Gonzalez.

Despite House's persistent teasing about it, Wilson was not dating Julieta Gonzalez. His communication with Julieta was strictly in regard to Danny's treatment and status. Wilson had not, in fact, even been on one date since Amber died. Amber, more so than any of his three ex-wives, had been Wilson's soul mate, and her death left him with wounds that were slow to heal.

He continued to meet with his psychiatrist and take the antidepressants he had been prescribed previously for chronic depression issues. And, he found the bereavement support group immensely helpful. He had Allison Cameron to thank for suggesting the support group. More than anyone else, he felt, Cameron understood what he was experiencing. He had arrived at a place of relative equilibrium where the good days were as numerous as the bad days. But, just because he was generally in a better place than he had been immediately after Amber's death didn't mean he was ready to jump into the dating world again.

One thing was certain: he was far less inclined to seek out the damsel in distress in the future. Amber was the epitome self-sufficiency. She wanted his love and respect, but she didn't want his self-sacrifice. He recalled with a smile how they arrived at purchasing the mattress on which was lounging awaiting the sunrise.

The mattress shopping adventure had been an object lesson for Wilson. He always gave his wives what he thought they wanted and needed, often sacrificing his own needs for the sake of what he assumed were theirs. He wasn't really sharing himself, though. Amber taught him that. She wanted him to choose a mattress for himself. Of course, he then decided to buy a waterbed, which he hated. What he thought he wanted wasn't really what he wanted at all, just like he always thought he wanted to be the knight in shining armor until he met Amber, who had no need for one.

In the end, though, he would have given anything to have been that knight in shining armor for her just once, to be able to save her life. He had never felt as useless or helpless as he did in the hours after he and House found her unconscious and rapidly failing at Princeton General. In his desperation he had asked House, his best friend, to essentially tilt at a gargantuan windmill on a wild runaway horse in broken armor in his stead. And when House failed and Amber died Wilson's world was shattered in more ways than one.

For as much as Wilson fancied himself to be House's caretaker, voice of conscience, sometime protector and sometime enabler, he also fancied House to be god-like in a way. He told Detective Tritter as much when he told him that House was a positive force in the universe who he saves people no one else can save. He elevated his friend to a position above mere mortal physicians. He was ashamed to admit even to himself that part of the reason that he wanted to distance himself from House in the weeks immediately following Amber's death was precisely because he couldn't reconcile his view of House with the horrible reality of what had happened.

But, House was right: Wilson liked to be prepared for the worse case scenario and he found it very disconcerting when he was unprepared. Wilson had certainly not anticipated that Amber would die so young, but he had anticipated that House's addiction and denial would eventually catch up with him.

Slivers of sunlight slipped into the room. Wilson got up and went to the kitchen to make breakfast and coffee. It was going to be a quiet weekend and he was actually grateful for that. Still, he had no idea what to expect on Monday when he visited House. For now, he thought as he sipped his coffee out of Amber's mug, he was going to focus on the positive and enjoy the beautiful spring day.


	23. Chapter 23

Darcy Coughlin went downstairs to talk to Feliks Krawiec about House as soon as her lunch hour patient left her office. She found her silver-haired colleague writing notes in a patient's chart at the very quiet nurse's station in the detox ward.

"Darcy, how are you?" he asked smiling warmly. "How is our attempted escapee?"

"I'm well. House is making progress. I actually came down to talk to you about him. This morning he asked me if he could be switched to something else for the pain..."

"Buprenorphine not working?" Krawiec asked with concern.

"It is, but I think he'd like to avoid the needles," she responded.

Krawiec nodded. "Understandable. How is the leg pain?"

"Most of the time he claims it's fine, but when he gets to the end of the six hours it is pretty clear to anyone watching him that he has more pain than he lets on. "

"Yes, he does make a significant effort to hide his pain," Krawiec commented.

"I also think that his pain may be affected by depression, but I suspect he will resist the idea that an anti-depressant might be helpful. On a more positive note, it turns out that he is a gifted pianist and apparently a composer too," she said. "He is far more expressive with music than he is with words."

"Well, that is better than having no way of expressing himself at all," Krawiec slipped his fountain pen back into the pocket protector in his coat's breast pocket. "Perhaps I should speak with Dr. House myself. Contrary to popular belief I do not really want to bring down the wrath of the Case Management Team upon myself by changing his meds again without careful consideration."

"He should be in his room," Coughlin told him. "Let me know if you do decide to change the meds and I'll get you his file."

"I'll be up in about an hour or so," Krawiec added as he pulled another detox patient's chart and headed down the hall in the opposite direction.

House, having once again taken his meal in his room by himself, was standing at the window looking out at the few cottony cumulus clouds in the sky when Krawiec knocked on the door. House told him come in without turning away from the window.

Krawiec opened the door and said, "Hello, House."

House pivoted on his left leg and the cane. "Hello."

"I am told that you have requested a change in your pain medication. I came to chat with you before making any recommendations," he said. "Mind if I have a seat?"

"Sure," House gestured to the side chairs as he leaned on his cane.

"Might you like to have a seat also?" Krawiec asked as he sat down.

House was trying to avoid walking in front of Krawiec, because the Buprenex was wearing off and that combined with a particularly bothersome muscle spasm meant that he was in moderate pain and his gait was visibly affected. He shuffled quickly to the desk chair and sat down.

"Hurts quite a bit, doesn't it?" Krawiec asked.

"I don't know why you all continue to ask me that question as if you do not already know the answer," House snapped.

"Because," Krawiec responded as he leveled his intense gaze on House, "we shouldn't make assumptions about someone else's experience."

"I think you just like to make people talk about things they would prefer not to rehash repeatedly," House grumbled under his breath.

"I'm afraid I am becoming a bit hard of hearing, House. You'll have to speak up," Krawiec said. It was only partially true.

"Not important," House said.

"I see. Well, how is the Buprenex working for you?"

House sighed. His leg was throbbing. "It works well... not as well as Vicodin, but not as bad as I thought it might," he commented, "but my hips are beginning to resemble pin cushions."

"OK, we could try one of the oral formulations of buprenorphine," Krawiec suggested.

"Not as affective, right?" House asked.

"Right, they weren't really intended for pain management. They were developed for the treatment of opioid addiction," Krawiec answered.

Krawiec leaned back in the chair, "We could try methadone..."

"No," House interrupted.

"Why not?" Krawiec asked.

"I had an episode of respiratory arrest on methadone," House informed him.

"Sounds like perhaps the dose was too high," Krawiec said.

"The pain relief was great..." House mused. "More like pain elimination."

"And yet you don't want to try it again?" Krawiec asked.

"It seems that people get upset when I stop breathing..." House recalled the look on Cuddy's face when he regained consciousness in his office the day he stopped breathing while napping there.

He asked House about the dose he was prescribed before. After they went through an extensive list of other possibilities Krawiec said, "House, I honestly think we should try methadone. I am hesitant to give you hydrocodone or oxycodone, for obvious reasons, and some of the other choices will probably not control your pain very well."

House absentmindedly rubbed his leg and considered Krawiec's suggestion. "OK." It's not like had patients, so nothing to compromise by having better pain control.

"Good," Krawiec said standing. "I'll let Dr. Coughlin know. We will switch you to methadone tomorrow morning, starting with the lowest recommended dose. It is very important that you actually respond to questions about your pain while we determine the right dose for you, so please bear with the repetitiousness."

"Thanks," House stood when Krawiec did.

"You're welcome," Krawiec said. "See you around."

On his way out of the ward Krawiec stopped at Coughlin's office. He told her that House agreed to start methadone. "On the very big plus side," he said with a smile, "you can prescribe an SSRI with no concern for potential negative interactions, assuming you can convince him..." Krawiec had chosen methadone not simply because of its use for pain management and for treating opioid addiction, but also because it would not interact badly with modern antidepressants.

"Thanks, Feliks," she said with a smile. Krawiec's intent was not to deceive House, but to ensure that all options would be available.


	24. Chapter 24

Wilson's weekend was relatively relaxing and calm. He took the Volvo to have it detailed. He worked on a presentation about community-based palliative care for cancer patients that he was scheduled to give at a conference in a few weeks. He watched an entire season of The L-Word on DVD.

Monday morning he went in to PPTH for a couple of hours to check on a few patients and then left to drive to Pennsylvania to visit House. He tried to let Cuddy know he was leaving, but she wasn't in her office when he walked by it, and he didn't want to risk running into any of House's team members while searching for her.

The drive was uneventful and he made excellent time, but Wilson hesitated before getting out of his car once he arrived at Mayfield. Cuddy told him that House was really trying this time. Wilson wasn't sure what that might look like. House's previous stint in rehab had been, for the most part, a sham. Or at least House wanted everyone to think it was a sham. Wilson had his doubts about that, but with House it wasn't always easy to tell even for Wilson.

This time, though, knowing that House had hit a point lower than he had ever been and that he was genuinely making an effort left Wilson curious, but cautious. He couldn't predict House's behavior or anticipate what he might say, and that made Wilson nervous. But, he was House's best friend and he couldn't just let him struggle through this without his support.

He walked the long path from the visitor's parking lot to the front of Mayfield Hospital. Had his college classmate been available that day they might have met for lunch, but he was out of town. That was for the best, anyhow. Wilson would have felt awkward socializing while he knew House was on the premises as a patient.

Upon entering the building Wilson informed the security guard that he was there to see Gregory House and went through the perfunctory steps of ensuring that he was not carrying contraband of any sort. The guard was brusk, but efficient. He told Wilson that House was in Rehab Ward C on the third floor.

On the third floor Wilson opened the Ward C doors and almost collided with a tall woman with long, dark curly hair as he entered. It was Darcy Coughlin who was looking down at a file in her hands as she walked out of her office. "Sorry," he apologized.

"No, no, my fault. I wasn't paying attention to where I was walking," she responded. "And you are... here to visit a patient?" she asked.

"Yes," he reached out to shake her hand, "James Wilson. I'm here to see Greg House."

He thought he saw fleeting recognition in her expression as she said, "Oh, sure. I'm Dr. Coughlin. I'll let him know you're here. You can have a seat in the common area," she said gesturing to the large seating area off the entry hall.

Wilson glanced over at the seating area where a few patients sat in small groups and alone at tables, talking or reading or writing. He looked away quickly, because he didn't want anyone to think he was staring. He sat down at the table farthest from the patients.

Coughlin knocked on House's closed door. "House?"

House looked up from the Moleskine in which he was carefully writing the remainder of the notation for the song he started on the second page. "Yeah?" he called.

She opened the door and looked into the room, "You have a visitor," she said. "It's your friend Wilson."

House closed the Moleskine, stuck it in his shirt pocket, grabbed his cane and followed Coughlin down the hallway towards the common area.

She stopped halfway down the hall, turned to House and said, "Look, I think you two really need to talk and not in the common area or the TV room. You can't have a visitor in your room, and I another resident needs to use my office to talk to a family member, but I could escort you down to the auditorium.... as long as you promise not to make a break for it," she said hoping that a little bit of humor would take the edge off his noticeable fear.

House almost laughed. "Wilson is a Boy Scout. He won't let me escape." The joke was a good cover for the sudden anxiety he felt at the suggestion that he and Wilson needed to talk. At their meeting the previous morning Dr. Coughlin spent a significant amount of time convincing him that he would feel better if he actually told Wilson how he felt about Amber's death. He finally agreed, but only so that she would stop pestering him about it and take him downstairs to the auditorium, so he could play the piano.

When he was in sight of the common area House gestured for Wilson to join him as he and Coughlin walked towards the exit doors. Wilson practically jogged over to them.

"House, hey, where are we going?" he asked.

"Dr. Coughlin, my shrink here, says that as long as you ensure that I do not leave this fine institution we can go downstairs to the auditorium instead of chatting here with all of my new friends in earshot," House quipped.

"The auditorium is on the second floor. It isn't used most of the time, so I sometimes allow patients to meet with their visitors there. It's more private," she explained.

Now it was Wilson's turn to feel anxious. Why would they need privacy? What had House told her? Did House blame him for being an enabler? Clearly, of course, that was none of Wilson's business, but still... it made him nervous.

"OK," he smiled and followed them to the elevator.

Wilson tried to make small talk in the elevator, commenting on the weather, the traffic on the drive, what he had for lunch... Coughlin smiled graciously and responded politely as appropriate. House just listened and watched. He knew Wilson was nervous.

"Wow," Wilson said upon entering the auditorium. He looked around the ornately decorated room. When he saw the piano on the stage he glanced at House and smiled. "So, have you played that yet?"

House nodded. "It's the carrot on the stick," he said. Wilson arched an eyebrow, but didn't ask for clarification.

They sat in the front row of the auditorium, side by side looking at the antique piano. "So," Wilson started, "how are you doing?"

"Fine," House answered.

Same old House, Wilson thought. "Really? That's good."

House sighed. "Not really," he answered honestly.

Wilson glanced over at House who looked pale and tired. "I didn't really think so," Wilson responded.

House smiled sadly.

"How are my minions?" he asked to change the subject.

Wilson chuckled. "Well... they attempted to check up on you."

House arched an eyebrow and looked at Wilson, "Attempted?"

"Yeah... they parked across the street to observe your apartment."

"And..." House gestured for Wilson to continue.

"Cuddy thought if I turned the lights on maybe they'd be satisfied that you were home and fearful enough of suffering your wrath that they'd just go without attempting to actually see you."

House smirked, "Oh, Cuddy... naïve Cuddy..."

"Exactly what I thought, so I called your friend Jolene."

To Wilson's relief House laughed. "You didn't."

"I did," Wilson grinned and then half-heartedly scolded, "and, by the way, leading me to believe that she was a prostitute..."

House chuckled. "So, what happened?"

"I had no idea what to do, but she came up with a brilliant plan. She put on one of your shirts and... not much else, and went out to the open doorway to fetch Chinese food that we ordered, while I hid in the bathroom with the shower running, in case they were bold enough to actually come to the door..."

"Did they?"

"No! I think seeing Jolene in just your shirt and a pair of wool socks put the fear of God in them."

"Jolene, Jolene, Jolene..." House practically sang while grinning.

"Very nice girl, by the way," Wilson added.

"Yes, I know. She tucked me in and made sure that I didn't die in my sleep for a few nights," he reminded Wilson.

After a short lull Wilson asked House about the notebook that was sticking up out of his shirt pocket.

"Homework," House answered. He should have left it in his room. He did not want to talk about it.

"Oh?" Wilson wasn't sure he should ask.

"Yeah, annoyingly manipulative psychiatrist ," House complained unconvincingly.

Wilson nodded. "Well, that is part of their schtick."

"Yeah, I get that," House paused and looked at Wilson who was looking up at the ceiling. "Wilson, I don't think I ever... well, I don't think I convincingly... or.. rather, I don't think..." House stammered uncharacteristically.

Wilson looked at House with a quizzical expression.

House took a deep breath. "I don't think I ever told you how sorry I am that I could not save Amber."

Wilson was stunned. "House, you did tell me you were sorry that she died on a number of occasions."

House gripped his cane tightly between his fists and looked down at the floor. "But, I didn't tell you how sorry I was that I couldn't save her."

Wilson nodded, his eyes suddenly full of tears. "You..." his voice broke, he shifted in his seat and cleared his throat. "You save everyone," he said softly and with such anguish that House felt worse and Wilson instantly regretted having uttered the words. Wilson understood. It wasn't selfishness or an exceptional lack of sympathy for Wilson's suffering that drove House to his sometimes maddeningly insensitive behavior. It was guilt.

"Wilson, I'm so sorry," House said. "If you need me to keep saying it, I will, but I can't keep..." he leaned forward in the chair, looked down, closed his eyes and covered his mouth with his hand.

"No, I'm sorry, House," Wilson apologized. "I've actually been thinking about this a lot lately. I didn't blame you for Amber's death. I didn't blame you for calling in the middle of the night or leaving your cane behind in the bar. I didn't even blame you for forgetting what happened. I blamed you for not living up to my expectation of you." Wilson looked over at House who was still leaning forward, clutching his cane and looking down at the floor. He couldn't see House's face, but continued anyway, hoping that this was helpful and not hurting his friend more. "As much as I like to remind you that you are only human even I sometimes think of you as if you are not." Wilson stopped when he saw tear drops making dark spots on the carpet at House's feet.

He put his hand on House's shoulder. After a few minutes he continued, "Your patients are the people other doctors have written off, given up on, predicted would die in weeks, days, sometimes hours, if they've actually managed to come up with a diagnosis at all. The percentage of those people who go on to live fairly normal lives after seeing you is... phenomenal," he said with genuine admiration. "That doesn't change because you weren't able to..." Wilson choked on the words. He paused, swallowed hard several times and continued, "That doesn't change because you weren't able to do something that no one could do. You are only human, House."

Through the tears House managed an ironic chuckle, "God doesn't limp, and he probably doesn't have delusions of having sex with His boss either."

Wilson patted House's shoulder and replied, "God doesn't have a boss, House," and then added, "not that Cameron wouldn't have tried for that position in the past."

House smiled, rubbed the remaining tears from his face and looked at Wilson. "You better escort me back upstairs before they call out a search team."

"Right," Wilson said quickly wiping his eyes on his sleeve. "I don't want to get you or me in trouble with your psychiatrist."


	25. Chapter 25

As he drove away form Mayfield Wilson felt worried and relieved at the same time. He was relieved that House was acknowledging his feelings, and worried that House's guilt for Amber's death was only the tip of the iceberg. He hoped that fear wouldn't drive House further into himself, or, worse, make him leave Mayfield.

House returned to his room and was startled to see Kutner sitting on the desk with his feet in the chair. Surely he should be rid of the hallucinations by now?

"That wasn't so bad, was it?" Kutner asked.

House scowled at him and said nothing.

"Seriously, don't you feel better?"

House ignored Kutner, laid on the bed and closed his eyes. He drifted sleepily under the effects of the methadone.

"He knew it wasn't your fault that I died," Amber whispered softly in his ear. "You didn't. Goodbye, House."

He opened his eyes and she was not there. Maybe it was just a dream. He looked across the room at the desk and Kutner was not there.

He sat up and looked around the room. He missed his own space, his piano, his guitars, his TV, his bed... And, he missed Wilson, and Cuddy. He even missed his team. OK, maybe he was spending too much time alone in that room. He decided to go out to the common area.

Selene leaned against the wall near the TV room doorway. She watched House walk towards the common area. She was curious about his limp. It was easy for people to tell what had happened to her. The thick, twisted, pink ribbon of skin down the side of her neck screamed burn victim. She had tried to grow her hair long in an attempt to hide the scar, but she couldn't stand the feeling of her hair brushing against it. She reached up and touched her scar without thinking just as House looked in her direction. She looked away quickly.

House noticed the pale-skinned, pale-eyed young woman watching him. He often caught people staring. He watched her reach up with her right hand and touch the hypertrophic scar on her neck. It was then that he noticed that she didn't, couldn't, straighten her left arm. The scar on her neck started just below her left ear and continued down her neck, disappearing into her shirt collar. He deduced that in addition to the hypertrophic scar on her neck she had a contracture scar on her arm, which limited its mobility.

He wondered if she was in rehab for treatment of addiction to pain medication. She certainly would have been prescribed some heavy duty drugs for treating those burns. He consciously stopped himself from considering her further. He was not there to diagnose other patients, he thought. Besides, the girl obviously thought he was staring out of morbid curiosity rather than medical interest.

"Group is in five minutes," Zophia said loudly to no one in particular as she started to rearrange the furniture in the common area.

House turned when Zophia spoke and when he looked back towards the TV room Selene was no longer there. He decided to join the other residents who were filing towards the circle of chairs.

House once again took the seat opposite the therapist's. Predictably the other patients sat in the same arrangement they had for the previous group session. Selene reappeared, taking the same seat she had before. House watched Selene position her left arm carefully so as not to bring attention to its lack of natural movement.

As he had previously Auden, the curly-haired kid, sat next to Selene. He again wore flip-flop sandals. This time House noticed scars between the kid's toes. It appeared that Auden had repeatedly injected something, House guessed Heroin, into the same area on his feet. Repeated use of the same site leads to skin damage, possible infection and scarring. Rather brazen of the kid to wear flip-flops when doing so revealed such clear evidence of his drug use.

House continued to look around the room. He observed that the apparent average age of the residents was probably somewhere around 30. He guessed that the oldest resident, a man with long grey hair pulled back in a neat ponytail, was probably around 60. He thought a skinny kid with braces on his teeth who wore well-worn Chuck Taylors and patched Levis was probably the youngest, 18 or 19.

Coughlin arrived with a folder in her hands, and took her seat. "Today we are going to talk about the types and symptoms of mental, emotional and social illness," she said.

House ignored the psychiatrist. He watched the other patients. Most of them were watching her and appeared to listen intently. One man, who appeared to be having difficulty paying attention, made strange facial expressions and licking motions with his tongue. House was certain the licking was Tardive Dyskinesia probably caused by drugs used to treat some kind of mental illness, possibly schizophrenia.

"I'm not crazy!" the man shouted as leapt out of his chair and stood with his fists clenched. With wildly angry eyes and the dyskinetic tongue-flicking House thought the guy certainly did not look sane.

"Jay," Coughlin said calmly, "we are talking about the symptoms of mental, emotional and social illness. All people experience symptoms of mental, emotional and/or social illness at some time in their lives. If experiencing these symptoms makes a person crazy then we are all crazy."

This seemed to defuse Jay's anger. He blushed, looked at Coughlin apologetically and sat down.

Coughlin resumed her educational speech about the symptoms of mental illness. This time House, holding his cane loosely by the curved handle, listened as she gave extremely cursory definitions of thought disorders and personality disorders. Though he would never admit it, House was paying attention because he knew that the hallucinations and the delusions were not caused by the Vicodin alone. His greatest fear was that he was losing his mind to some form of severe mental illness.

One sentence from her speech stood out in his mind: "Severe depression can cause hallucinations and delusions."

At the end of the session House hurried back to his room. He was no longer interested in observing his fellow residents. He wanted a moment alone to consider what Coughlin had said and whether or not he believed that it was possible.

House closed the door and tossed his cane onto the bed. He limped into the bathroom and stared at his reflection in the mirror. His usual scruffy facial hair was no longer merely stubble; it had grown into an unkempt grey beard. His color was still off, not ashen as it had been in the throes of withdrawal, but not healthy looking either. His eyes were still the same brilliant blue, but beneath them the dark circles belied the debt of sleeplessness that was still not repaid.

In his reflection Kutner appeared standing behind him. "Depression can cause physical pain to be more severe."

"My leg doesn't hurt, because I'm depressed," House spat in an angry tone.

"I didn't say that the pain was caused entirely by depression. I implied that the pain might be worsened by depression," Kutner responded.

"So, you think that's what this is?" House leaned towards the mirror squinting at Kutner.

"I think it's worth exploring. I mean, it's possible that you might have less pain if you took an anti-depressant."

"It's also possible that I might have a less functional brain on an anti-depressant."

Kutner shook his head. "House, it doesn't work that way and you know it. It's just like any other chemical imbalance. If you were a diabetic would you forgo insulin?"

House turned the cold water on, let it run into this cupped hands, closed his eyes and splashed it on his face. When he opened his eyes Kutner was gone.


	26. Chapter 26

"We have a referral from the ER," Hadley said excitedly as she rushed into the diagnostics conference room waving a patient's chart in the air.

Taub and Foreman joined her at the conference table. "OK," Foreman said, "give us the details."

Hadley tucked a sleek strand of her long, brown hair behind her ear and summarized the patient's history. The patient was a 35 year old male with who had been brought to the PPTH ER by ambulance after he collapsed at work. His colleagues reported that he had been in a bad mood, and shortly before his collapse was confused about where he was.

"His temp is 105, he has a stiff neck and photophobia," she reported.

"He has meningitis," Taub said with a bored and disappointed tone.

"The ER doc suspected meningitis, but the spinal tap is clean," she said placing the open file on the table in front of Taub and Foreman.

"Aseptic meningitis is probably viral," Foreman said.

"Negative for CMV, negative for varicella, negative for HIV, and negative for West Nile" she listed the viruses for which the patient had already been tested.

"Hmmm," Taub said. "Where's the patient?"

"They're sending him to intensive care quarantine, and referring him to us."

"Well, let's go through the differential and then we'll go meet the patient," Foreman said as he grabbed a dry-erase pen and stood at the whiteboard.

Downstairs Cuddy escorted an elderly couple out of her office smiling graciously.

"We really want to see this happen, Dr. Cuddy," the man said as he placed his fedora over his snow-white hair.

"So do we, Mr. Nilsen, and the hospital sincerely appreciates your generous support."

The Nilsens were there to give a sizable donation to support a community-based hospice program that would enable terminally ill patients to spend their last days in their homes while simultaneously providing hospice and palliative care training opportunities for medical and nursing students.

Mrs. Nilsen took Cuddy's hand between her own and looked earnestly at the younger woman with eyes that looked almost cartoonishly large behind her extremely thick eyeglass lenses. "The hospice in Plainsboro is a very nice place, but my sister wanted to be at home. We only wish that we could have done this sooner."

Cuddy nodded sympathetically. "We will definitely send you a progress report on the program."

Mr. Nilsen wrapped one arm around his wife and they walked together, leaning on each other, through the lobby and out the exit doors.

As the Nilsens exited the hospital James Wilson re-entered. He walked across the lobby to Cuddy's office.

Cuddy had already returned to her desk, so she had not seen Wilson return. When he knocked on her office she looked up and then looked at her watch.

"You didn't have to come back today," she said kindly, noticing how tired he looked.

"Thanks, I have to finish some paperwork and I'm taking the day off on Wednesday."

She nodded understandingly. Wednesday would be the anniversary of Amber's death.

"So...?" Cuddy asked.

Wilson sat in one of the chairs in front of her desk. "It's going to be a slow process, but like you said, he's really making an effort."

She nodded.

He combed his fingers through his straight, dark brown hair. He added quietly, "He feels guilty that he couldn't save Amber."

Cuddy nodded again. She actually suspected that was the case, though she doubted House would ever admit it to anyone including himself. She had encouraged House to reach out to Wilson out of hope that they could help each other heal from Amber's tragic death.

"I think he's letting it go," Wilson said rubbing his hands over his face.

Cuddy thought Wilson was talking about himself as much as House. They had all been affected by Amber's death, of course, but none more so than Wilson, who was clearly deeply in love with her; and House, who very nearly gave up his own life to save her. But, in Wilson's case it wasn't just Amber he was letting go, but his complicated feelings about House's involvement in the situation that lead to her death.

What Cuddy worried about more, but did not express to Wilson, was how Kutner's suicide impacted House. So many people assumed that Eric Foreman was most like House, and they were wrong. The similarities between House and Foreman were quite superficial. Kutner, on the other hand, was very much like a younger version of House. Cuddy had watched House's tortured struggle to make sense of Kutner's suicide, and worried that its impact, compounded by his denial that it had any impact at all, left psychic wounds that contributed significantly to his decline.

Wilson interrupted her thoughts, "Are you going out there again this week?"

"Yes, I told him I would." She thought it was important to keep her word to him.

Wilson nodded. He knew that House needed them. House would never admit it, but Wilson thought he and Cuddy provided a thin safety line that tethered House to his real life and kept him from sinking further into the depths of addiction and despair.

Upstairs in the diagnostics conference room, the patient's symptoms were neatly written on he whiteboard. Foreman lead the team through the differential. In the absence of bacteria or viruses meningitis could be caused by fungi, or cancer. They would have to talk to the patient and conduct more tests.

"I'll go talk to the patient. You two can determine if there is enough CSF from the spinal tap for additional testing. I'd like to avoid doing another tap unless it's necessary."

Hadley was surprised that Foreman was sending her off with Taub. Taub was a little surprised as well. Clearly Foreman was making an effort not to display any sort of favoritism towards Hadley.

Foreman wasn't thinking about favoritism at all. He was thinking about leading by example, meeting the patient face-to-face and taking the patient's history himself.

The three doctors exited the conference room and walked to the elevators together. They seemed to be doing just fine without House, Foreman thought smugly.


	27. Chapter 27

While Taub and Hadley attempted to run a few more tests using the remaining CSF from the patient's ER spinal tap, Foreman reviewed the nurse's notes on the patient and then donned the gown required for entering the patient's isolation room. Christopher Justin "CJ" Asker had dark brown hair cut quite short and toffee-colored light brown eyes. He was fair-skinned, but obviously even more pale from illness.

"I'm Dr. Foreman from the Diagnostics Department. Your case was referred to us by the ER. I'd like to ask you some questions," Foreman began.

"Hi, they said I have meningitis, but they don't know why. They stopped giving me antibiotics, because they said it wouldn't help."

"They're right. If you don't have bacterial meningitis antibiotics won't help you, and could make you sicker."

CJ rubbed his forehead. Foreman noticed the patient's twisted finger joints, rheumatoid arthritis. It was listed in his chart already.

"When were you diagnosed with RA?"

"When I was a kid," he responded. "I already told the ER that. RA doesn't cause meningitis." The patient was obviously slightly exasperated.

Foreman explained that he would be asking a lot of questions that CJ had probably been asked more than once before and apologized, but emphasized that it was important for the diagnostics team to be thorough.

In the lab Taub and Hadley repeated tests that had already been done and came up with the same answers as the first round of testing. A few tests would take more time, but they were certain that no bacteria would grow.

"It could be fungal," Hadley said.

"We don't have enough CSF left to test for fungal infection." Taub frowned.

"We need another spinal tap."

"You can tell Foreman," Taub said. "I'll stay here and run the blood."

Hadley shrugged. "OK."

Hadley passed the patient's isolation unit and saw that he was asleep. Foreman wasn't there, so she assumed correctly that he was back in the diagnostics conference room.

Foreman looked up as she walked into the room. "Since Taub isn't with you I assume that you didn't find anything."

"We don't have enough CSF to complete testing. We need another spinal tap."

Foreman rubbed his chin. "OK, you can do that."

Hadley looked annoyed. She was beginning to feel that Foreman was taking his position in House's absence just a bit too seriously. Foreman was assigning the grunt work to her and Taub as if they were his underlings instead of his colleagues.

"What?" he asked as she turned and headed out the door.

She didn't respond. Foreman looked back down at the patient's chart. He noted that the patient had been treated for his RA with immunosuppressant drugs. He vaguely recalled reading an article about a patient with RA who contracted histoplasmosis, probably due to reduced immunity and it was misdiagnosed as Felty's. He called the lab and asked Taub if there was still blood left to test for histoplasmosis.

In the ICU Hadley asked one of the nurses to come with her while she did another spinal tap on the patient. She felt bad for the patient. Being punctured in the back twice in the same day seemed almost cruel.

Hadley was surprised to see that the patient was awake, because it had not been that long since she had passed by his room and saw him sound asleep. "Hi, Mr. Asker, my name is Dr. Hadley. I'm sorry to tell you that we need to do another spinal tap."

"Dr. Hadley, no one calls me Mr. Asker. It's CJ, and I live with rheumatoid arthritis pain every day of my life. Another needle in the back won't kill me."

Hadley glanced at the nurse who shrugged. They helped the patient to sit up and move into the position required for the procedure. Hadley worked quickly and efficiently to drape the patient, clean the lumbar region, inject a regional anesthetic, and place the rather large needle to obtain the sample. At least if she was going to torture the patient she was going to do it fast. The fluid was, as she expected it would be, clear without any blood or cloudiness that would indicate infection.

The patient, who had been stoically quiet throughout the procedure, suddenly gasped. "CJ...?" she asked.

"Oh my God," he said suddenly reaching out with flailing arms. The nurse held his shoulders to prevent him from moving forward while Hadley deftly removed the needle from his back.

"What's wrong?"

"Everything is blurry. I can't see," he said in a panicked tone.

Hadley told the nurse to page Foreman and helped CJ lay back down in the bed. "I'm going to look in your eyes. We'll figure out what is causing this," she said reassuringly to her frightened patient. She watched his heart rate and blood pressure climb from the stress. She grabbed an opthalmoscope from the exam cart in the corner of the room and examined his eyes.

"You have posterior uveitis. We need to do some tests, but this could be caused by your RA."

"It's not caused by RA," Foreman said as he entered the airlock and rushed to get the gown on over his suit.

"It's not?" CJ and Hadley asked simultaneously.

"No, it's histoplasmosis. We're going to give you a drug called Amphotericin B." Foreman had the vial in his hand.

Foreman started setting up the drug for slow infusion in CJ's IV. "Amphotericin has some unpleasant side effects, but we will monitor them and give you other medications to alleviate the symptoms. To start we'll give you some acetaminophen, because it almost always causes a fever with the first dose."

"So, in other words you're going to make me sicker to make me better." the patient remarked.

"Well... yes."

"I've heard that one before."

Hadley left the isolation room to retrieve the acetaminophen with a worried look on her face. There hadn't been enough time for Taub to have confirmed that this was histoplasmosis. She wasn't sure they should be giving Amphotericin B to the patient.


	28. Chapter 28

House had a difficult time falling asleep Monday night. At 2:00am as he looked up at the ceiling he considered asking for Ambien. He rubbed his eyes and sat up. More from habit than from actual need he rubbed his right leg. The methadone was working as well as it had the first time. He kneaded the heel of his right hand into the damaged muscle without wincing.

Without the mental distraction of the pain his mind raced. Psychotic depression could cause hallucinations and delusions.

"So can drug-induced psychosis," Kutner said quietly from the doorway of the bathroom. "But, that doesn't mean you wouldn't benefit from an antidepressant."

House closed his eyes. "I thought we went over this already?"

"I'm a slow learner," Kutner said.

"I remember that about you," House said softly. A hint of a smile crossed his face as he recalled Kutner's more dramatic adventures with resuscitation. He nearly killed himself a couple of times House remembered. He winced at the thought. When he looked up Kutner was gone again. House sighed and laid back down on the bed. Somehow he managed to fall asleep.

Tuesday morning Rachel awakened when the sunlight slipped through the ruffled curtains of her nursery. She fussed for only a minute before Cuddy was there lifting her from the crib.

"Good morning sweet girl," she said kissing the nearly bald top of her daughter's head. The baby looked up at her mother with her huge, blue eyes and grinned. "Let's change your diaper and get you your bottle."

In the kitchen Cuddy held the baby on her hip and expertly prepared a bottle of formula with one hand. Rachel kicked excitedly as she watched her mother twist the nipple in its plastic ring onto the bottle. Cuddy carried Rachel and the bottle into her own bedroom and arranged her pillows against the headboard of her bed. She sat against the pile of pillows cradling the baby in her arms and talked to her while she fed her the formula.

"The sun is shining, Rachel. Amelia will be here soon and she can take you out for a walk today while Mommy is at work. Won't that be nice? Yes..." Rachel watched her mother's face as she drank her formula. She stopped sucking periodically to give a milky grin and coo in response to her mother.

After she fed, burped, bathed and changed Rachel Cuddy got herself ready for another day at PPTH. While she waited for the nanny she played with Rachel who was laying on her tummy on a pink and white quilt on the floor. Today would be one of those days that was harder than others... a day that she really wished she could just stay home with Rachel. She promised herself she would look at her calendar and find time to take a few days off sometime in the next few weeks. Then she could take Rachel to the park on a sunny day herself.

Amelia arrived a few minutes late, but Cuddy didn't mind. As she stuffed a few folders into her briefcase she asked the nanny if she could stay late Thursday or Friday.

"Sorry, I have plans both evenings, but I could stay late tomorrow." Amelia scooped Rachel up from the floor and walked towards the door with Cuddy.

"Oh... OK, that would be great. Thanks, Amelia."

Cuddy thought she'd have a couple of days to mentally prepare for visiting House at Mayfield again. She kissed Rachel goodbye and went to her car.

At PPTH Foreman and Hadley arrived early to check on the patient. They found him pale, clammy and vomiting violently into an emesis basin while a nurse administered another dose of IV antiemetic.

"Doctors," the nurse said as she got another basin for the patient, "he's been vomiting like this as soon as the antiemetic wears off. His temperature was 104 this morning."

"CJ," Hadley said grabbing an opthalmoscope, "how is your vision?"

"I..." he panted, "still can't... see..."

"It takes time," Foreman said looking at the chart. "Switch him to ibuprofen for the fever, and ondansetron for the vomiting," he said to the nurse.

"My head hurts..." the patient said and started retching again.

"That could be caused by the medication," Foreman said. "Ibuprofen should help."

Hadley shot a concerned look at Foreman who ignored her. He would not be questioned in front of the patient. Hadley followed the nurse out of the room ripping the gown off angrily as she headed for the diagnostics department.

Taub was balancing his briefcase, a coffee and a bagel from the cafeteria when he stepped out of the elevator and almost collided with Hadley.

"Good morning," he said. He could tell she was seething. Her green eyes flashed.

"Hey," she said.

"So... what's up?"

"The patient is experiencing side effects from the Amphotericin B."

"No real surprise there," Taub responded. "The blood test was negative, by the way."

"Damn," Hadley said.

"Yeah, but the rate of false negatives is high. We have to repeat the test while we wait for the culture."

"The culture could take two weeks. The Amphotericin B might kill him before then."

"And so might the histoplasmosis," Foreman said from behind them.

"Aren't you concerned that the patient seems to be getting sicker?"

"Remy, the patient is experiencing normal side effects of a powerful antifungal drug. If we don't treat the histoplasmosis he could suffer serious brain damage or permanent damage to his eyes."

"So, we're sure he has histoplasmosis?"

"Do you have any other suggestions?" Foreman asked impatiently.

Hadley shook her head. Taub raised his eyebrow. Trouble in paradise.

Just then Cuddy walked into the diagnostics conference room. "How is your patient?" she asked.

"He has histoplasmosis. We're treating it with Amphotericin B."

"He looked pretty sick when I walked by the isolation unit." She cast a chilling grey gaze at Foreman.

"Side effects from the Amphotericin B," Hadley said.

"OK," Cuddy said. "Make sure you monitor his kidney function," she reminded them as she walked out of the room.


	29. Chapter 29

Once asleep House slept deeply, but fitfully and didn't awaken Tuesday morning until someone knocked loudly on his door.

"You missed breakfast." It was Coughlin. "I have your methadone and something for you to eat."

House opened the door. "Thanks," he said.

"Trouble sleeping?" she asked observing the unmade bed, unkempt hair, wrinkled t-shirt and plaid flannel pajama bottoms. He turned and walked away from her. He still walked with a limp, but it was much less pronounced. The methadone was obviously working.

He nodded setting the plate she handed to him on the desk. He noticed that the tiny paper cup of green liquid methadone sat at the edge of the plate. The familiar pain would return if he didn't drink that green concoction soon.

"House," she said, "I have Thursday and Friday off and my schedule is full today and tomorrow, but I wanted to talk to you. I am going to prescribe an antidepressant for you."

"I'm not taking it."

"Why not?"

"I don't want it," he said looking down at the plate. Scrambled eggs, sliced cantaloupe, two pieces of whole wheat toast, and a scoop of cottage cheese with a slice of ripe tomato on top. He really wasn't that hungry, but he pushed the eggs around on the plate with the fork.

"House, you have major depression. Are you telling me that you don't want to be treated?" Her dark eyes flashed with concern and frustration.

"I'm telling you I don't want the drug."

"I'm going to give you some time to think about it. Before I leave tomorrow we'll talk again. If you refuse to take the medication I will have to inform your case team." She didn't want to threaten him, but he was leaving her few options.

"OK," he said. He shoveled a forkful of eggs into his mouth and hoped she would leave.

"OK," she responded, turned and walked out the door.

He vaguely recalled that refusing to comply with a prescribed treatment protocol could result in being ejected from the program. He sighed. He took the methadone, left the food on the plate and went back to bed.

Bonnie walked into Wilson's office with her brief case in hand. She felt bad for James and was happy to help him look for another apartment if that's what he wanted to do.

"Are you really sure you're ready to do this?" she asked pulling a folder out of the leather bag.

"Yeah," he said. He was a little nervous. He asked Bonnie, because he wanted to give her the business, but also because she knew him so well and he was sure she would help him find a place he could call home.

"OK, I have some listings here," she handed him the folder. "We can talk about the places you want to see tomorrow... say, over dinner?"

"Uh, OK."

"If you already have plans, that's OK," she said quickly.

"No... no, I don't. Your fiance?"

"Oh, Robert is preparing for a big court case and won't be able to join us," she smiled. Robert, Bonnie's fiance, was an attorney in Manhattan. They met when Bonnie helped him sell his parents' house in Princeton. His father had been a history professor at the university. He seemed like a nice guy and Wilson was glad that Bonnie was happy. "Sorry, I have to run, showing a house in Plainsboro... anyway, if you narrow it down I can make appointments for you to see them. See you tomorrow, James."

"Thanks, Bonnie," he smiled as she walked out the door.

This was a big step, but Wilson felt that he was ready for it. He opened the folder and started looking through the MLS printouts.

At the end of the day Foreman stood outside the isolation unit watching their patient sleep. The ibuprofen and ondansetron seemed to be helping. His fever was down and he hadn't vomited in several hours. He was sure that this was histoplasmosis, but the second blood test came back negative too. He told Taub to run another one. The rate of false negatives from the blood test was pretty high. Now that he was more stabilized they could get some x-rays, maybe that would help confirm it.

"Ready?" Remy asked.

"Yeah," Foreman said. "Let's go home."

As Cuddy walked out of her office she saw Taub walking through the lobby. "Dr. Taub, how's your patient?"

"He seems to be improving," Taub said smiling.

"Glad to hear it."

"So..." Taub began. Cuddy knew what he was going to say next. "When is House coming back?"

"I don't know. Counsel is involved." She was certain that answer would stifle Taub's curiosity.

Taub raised his eyebrows. As predicted he didn't persist. "Have a good night, Dr. Cuddy."

"You too, Dr. Taub."

Cuddy walked quickly to her car. As she passed his assigned handicap parking space Cuddy thought of House. She couldn't imagine Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital without him. She couldn't imagine her life without him.

Though she tried not to think about it much she wondered what it meant that his delusion involved her so intimately, and not just sexually, though that was apparently part of it too. Was it because things were moving in that direction already that his mind followed that course?

Wilson interrupted her train of thought calling to her as he walked to his own car. "Hey, Cuddy."

"Wilson," she turned. "I saw your ex-wife walk past my office earlier today."

"Yeah, she brought me some MLS listings," he looked away sheepishly.

"Listings?"

"I decided to look for a new apartment," he said. He watched her face. He wasn't sure how people would react.

She was a little surprised, but was glad that he was taking more steps in recovering from his loss. "Ah, apartment hunting... well, at least you have a good Realtor."

"Yeah, she's very enthusiastic about it. Did I tell you she's engaged?"

"No, when did that happen?"

"Last month. The lawyer she started dating after she sold his parents' house."

"Wow, well, it's good that she found someone." Soon to be one less alimony payment for Dr. Wilson, she thought.

"Yes. So... I'll see you Thursday," he said as they approached his car.

"Hey," she said softly and reached out to touch his arm. "Take care of yourself."

"Thanks," he said with a sad smile.


	30. Chapter 30

Wednesday morning Wilson stood in front of the mirror in his bedroom and carefully tied a perfect half-Windsor knot in his grey striped silk tie. He checked his reflection in the mirror. Clean-shaven, neat haircut, dark grey suit, starched white shirt... OK, maybe it was overly dramatic to wear a suit to visit the cemetery, but somehow it felt right. This was a formal occasion, the anniversary of Amber's death. He slipped his winter dress coat on over the suit and picked up the bouquet of red roses from the table on his way to the door.

It was cold enough that Wilson turned the heat on in the Volvo. The roses lay on the front passenger seat next to him. The fragrance from the two dozen dark red, velvety long-stemmed blossoms quickly filled the car as the temperature increased.

The misty rain turned gradually to larger and larger drops as Wilson approached the cemetery. By the time he pulled down the lane closest to Amber's burial site the grey sky poured forth huge, icy tears. Wilson cradled the roses against his chest and got out of the car. He retrieved his umbrella from the trunk and squinting into the rain walked along the rows of stones until he reached the one marked Volakis.

Wilson bowed his head and began to recite the prayer "God Full of Compassion" from memory: "Compassionate God, eternal Spirit of the universe, grant perfect rest in Your sheltering presence to Amber, who has entered eternity..." It was not because he was particularly religious that he recited the prayer, but because he found comfort in the tradition. Had Amber been Jewish herself there would have been an unveiling ceremony here shortly before this day and that prayer, and the Mourner's Kaddish would have been said.

Squatting in the wet spring grass beside the grave, balancing the umbrella, he carefully laid the roses horizontally against the front of the stone. Standing up he reached into his coat pocket and removed a smooth, oddly-shaped stone. He placed the stone, a polished chunk of amber, on the top of the black granite headstone.

He looked around to confirm that he was still alone and looked down at the golden stone resting on the rain-slicked, highly polished black granite. "Amber," he said aloud, "I love you and I miss you. Thank you for everything you taught me in your life and your death." His eyes filled with tears. "I want you to know..." he cleared his throat and smiled through the tears as he tipped back his umbrella and looked up into the rain. "I want you to know that I am moving on with my life. I'm going to look for a new place to live, a place that's mine alone. It's the only way that I can imagine inviting someone new into my life, and I know that's what you'd want me to do."

He closed his eyes and allowed the tears to mix with the cold rain and slide down his cheeks. In his mind's eye he could see Amber's face, bruised and scraped, on her last day after she had been awakened only to be told that she was dying. He could hear her telling him that anger was not the last thing she wanted to feel. He knew that she would not want him to spend the rest of his life feeling only sorrow and grief. And he was ready to move on.

He made his way back to his car and headed back down the road. He had a busy day planned: meeting with an old friend from med school for lunch, calling Julietta at the hospital in New York to check up on Daniel, mailing an article he'd recently finished to the journal's editor, and having dinner with his ex-wife Bonnie to talk about apartment hunting. Moving on...

As the cold rain spattered loudly against the window in his room, House sat at the desk turning the little Moleskine notebook over in his hands, feeling the smooth cover. The notation for the piece was complete. He wasn't sure there was more to say.

"Sure there is," Kutner said from behind him.

House closed his eyes. He rubbed his hand over his thinning hair. He exhaled loudly, annoyed.

Kutner moved around to the side of the desk and leaned against the wall. "That's how you feel, but don't you think you should tell her?"

"I played it for her," House said laying the book on the desk.

"Not your shrink, Cuddy. You wrote that for her, didn't you?"

House looked up at Kutner, puzzled, squinted, and slowly shook his head. "No... no, I didn't write this for her," he said very quickly, the pitch of his voice unusually high.

Kutner furrowed and then raised his eyebrows. It was a clear expression of disbelief.

"Why would I write this for Cuddy?"

Kutner's expression softened. "Why would you write this for Cuddy?"

House shifted in the chair, aggravated. "Could you not do that..."

Kutner chuckled softly, "...answer a question with a question?"

"Really annoying, said it before..."

"I can't answer that question for you. You need to answer that question for yourself," Kutner said and then vanished.

House opened the notebook and turned to the first page. Guilt and grief. By now Cuddy probably knew about the guilt he expressed to Wilson. Wilson often told her too much, but House took advantage of that fact. He knew that if he couldn't say something to Cuddy himself he could almost guarantee to get the message to her through Wilson.

But, there were some things he just couldn't say to anyone, not even Cuddy. He couldn't even say them to himself. He couldn't acknowledge how deeply affected he had been by Kutner's suicide. Wilson was wrong. It wasn't that he was terrified that he was losing his gift. It was that he was terrified that he had intentionally ignored something that he really had noticed, because if he noticed it in Kutner he'd have to acknowledge it in himself.

Kutner reappeared sitting cross-legged on the bed. "Come on, at least play it for her... she'll understand. Isn't that what you want?"

House chewed his lower lip. He nodded. That is what he wanted. He wanted her to understand that he there was no malice in what he had done to her. That it had come from a place so bewildering to him that he had no words for it. That in an admittedly strange way he was reaching out to her as he had reached out to only one other person before, Stacy, and after that ended he swore he would never let himself do it again.

"OK, I will. When she comes out here again. I will," he said although Kutner was no longer anywhere in sight.


	31. Chapter 31

The rain and humidity made Cuddy's dark hair curl into thick ringlets despite the products she had used to smooth the curls into controlled waves that morning. Because of the unseasonable chill she wore a coat and gloves. The rain and the cold made the day more somber. She thought of Wilson and hoped he was spending at least some of his day off with friends or family.

House stood at the window in his room staring out into the winter-like gloom. It had not escaped his recollection that it was exactly one year since Amber Volakis died that day. He too thought of Wilson and hoped his friend was OK.

When the security guard called up to confirm that House could have a visitor Coughlin said yes and upon hearing who it was went straight to the elevator. As Cuddy finished signing in at the security desk Darcy Coughlin rushed towards the lobby. She wanted to catch Cuddy before House knew that she was there.

"Dr. Cuddy," she called out as Cuddy opened the main entrance doors.

"Yes?" Cuddy responded as she unbuttoned her coat.

"Can we talk for a minute?"

"Sure," Cuddy said with some apprehension.

"Let's go into the office here," she said motioning towards one of a series of doors on the right side of the hallway.

It was a small consultation office with a few chairs and small end tables around the perimeter of the room. Coughlin sat in a chair at the opposite side of the room from the door. Cuddy sat in one of the chairs along the left wall.

"Look," Coughlin started, her dark eyes serious and her brow furrowed, "I really need your help. House has clinical depression, but he continues to refuse anti-depressants."

Cuddy wasn't surprised that House was depressed. She was surprised that his psychiatrist was discussing it with her. "And you're telling met his, because..?"

Coughlin pursed her lips, "I'm telling you this because he respects you. I think you might be able to help me to help him."

Cuddy brushed an errant curl away from her face. She was mildly amused at the thought that House respected her, but perhaps that's the impression he had given his psychiatrist. She bit her lower lip as she considered what the psychiatrist said. She nodded, "OK, I'll see what I can do."

Usually it was a well-intentioned, albeit occasionally harebrained, idea of Wilson's in which Cuddy got herself involved in the name of helping House. At least this time she was certain that the intentions of the helper were completely selfless. She doubted, however, that she could convince House to take an antidepressant. She had been unable to convince him to continue methadone treatment even though it improved the quality of his life.

"Thank you, Dr. Cuddy. He'll be glad to see you. I think he's been feeling lonelier since Wilson visited." Coughlin stood and strode towards the door. "If he suggests it you can take him down to the auditorium," she added. Cuddy looked at her with a puzzled expression. "Trust me, it's not something you should miss."

Cuddy smiled curiously and walked with Coughlin down the hall towards the elevator. "I have to check in on a patient in the detox ward," Coughlin said smiling. "Good luck."

"Thanks," Cuddy responded. She wondered what she was getting herself into.

House may not have forgotten that it was the anniversary of Amber's death, but he had forgotten that Cuddy was returning to visit. Or, more accurately, he had forgotten what day she was planning to visit. Perhaps she hadn't said. In any case, he was more than a little nervous when the staff member's voice behind the knock at the door said, "House, you have a visitor, a Dr. Lisa Cuddy."

Obviously the dour weather did wonders for her hair, he observed while walking down the hallway towards her as she stood near the open communal area. Actually, he always thought her hair looked better when she didn't try to control it.

She turned her distinctive, serious grey eyes on him and smiled. "Hello," she said.

"Let's blow this joint," he said leaning on his cane.

"What?"

"So gullible, Cuddy," he teased. She rolled her eyes at him. "Maybe you'd like to go down to the auditorium... it's downstairs. I'm sure my shrink wouldn't mind."

"OK," Cuddy shrugged off her wool coat and folded it over her arm. "Lead the way."

Cool, no arguments from Cuddy. Maybe he should be suspicious of that. Still, any opportunity to get away from his fellow inmates and his room was a gift.

In the elevator Cuddy informed him about his team's latest case. She told him she thought they were handling it well, but didn't go into great detail about the patient. She didn't want him to think she was there for a consult. He did try to wheedle the details out of her as they walked towards the auditorium, but she brushed off his attempts by changing the subject to the nearly winter-like weather.

When they arrived at the auditorium doors House pushed the door open and gestured dramatically. "After you, Madame."

House watched Cuddy's expression as she entered the grand space. The auditorium was impressive. When she noticed the gorgeous piano on the stage she turned to House. "That's beautiful."

"Isn't it? Sometimes they let us loonies pound the keys." His pace quickened as he walked towards the stage.

Cuddy watched his gait. He was not leaning on the cane much at all. She wondered what they were giving him for the pain, because the last time she had seen him that sure-footed was when he was on methadone.

"Are you going to play?" she asked, somewhat surprised. She hadn't heard House play in a few years.

"Sure, why not?" he asked sounding just a little like he was trying to convince himself that it was OK.

She sat in the front row and he practically leapt up the stairs to the stage. Cuddy laid her coat across the chair next to her and set her purse on the floor. This must have been why Coughlin told her to agree if he suggested coming down here. Cuddy knew that House was a gifted musician. She had known that for many, many years.

House set his cane carefully on the floor, sat on the bench and looked down at the keys as he moved his hands into position. Suddenly he felt nervous. Was he really ready to do this? Yes, he reassured himself. He needed to do this. He started to play the piece he had written for his homework assignment, the moving and melancholy piece that brought his shrink to tears.


	32. Chapter 32

The music had the same effect on Cuddy as it had on Darcy Coughlin. She found it elegant and exquisitely sad. Her eyes filled with tears and overflowed as she sat in stunned silence watching him play. More startling to Cuddy was that it had the same effect on House, though he seemed completely unaware of its impact on himself. He was so caught up in playing the piece that he did not appear to notice the tears streaming down his face. And he also didn't notice Cuddy rise from her seat and ascend the stairs onto the stage.

She walked up behind him and put her hands on his shoulders. "House..." she said softly. He continued to play. She could feel the tension in his trapezius muscles as he played. It was as if he didn't notice she was there despite the fact that she was touching him. "House," she said a little louder squeezing his shoulders gently. And still he continued to play, completely oblivious to her presence, until the piece was finished. Then he dropped his hands into his lap and leaned forward towards the keys, eyes closed, head down, trembling.

"Hey... House..." She released his shoulders and settled on the piano bench next to him. She reached out for his nearest hand and to her surprise he pivoted on the bench and wrapped his arms around her.

He began to sob as hard has he had in her office the day Wilson brought him to Mayfield. She held onto him just as tightly as she had that day.

"Shhh," she whispered softly as she gently rocked in her awkwardly twisted position next to him on the piano bench. It was a steady, instinctive, comforting motion.

His breathing calmed, and he disengaged from the embrace. He rubbed his hands over his face. He was once again mortified at his own vulnerability and lack of control. That was not what he had intended to happen. He only wanted her to hear it, to understand...

Cuddy remained seated on the piano bench. Though their embrace was broken she was still touching him, her shoulder against his arm, her leg against his. They both needed that contact.

Cuddy wiped her eyes on her sleeve and sniffled . "What was that piece?"

He exhaled loudly a few times and cleared his throat. She waited patiently.

"It was a homework assignment..." he paused, "...from my shrink."

"She gave you an assignment to write music?"

"No, she gave me an assignment to write about..." He stopped for a moment wondering if he should tell her. "...how I felt," he finished, cringing.

Cuddy's eyes again filled with tears. That stunning piece of music conveyed more about his feelings than a few sentences ever might have. She swallowed the lump in her throat. "It was beautiful, House, but it was so sad." She regretted that her voice broke at the end of sentence.

He nodded. He looked up at the ceiling, bit his lip and willed himself not to cry again.

Cuddy reached out and took his hand. He looked down at her small hand clutching his much larger one. "God knows, you have had enough things to be sad about in the last year to last a lifetime."

"You too," he deflected.

She thought back on the year's events. Losing Joy was one of the most painful experiences of her entire life. "Yeah, me too." She squeezed his hand.

He turned and looked her in the eyes. "But, you're not in here."

"No, I'm not." She reached up and put her hand on the side of his face, her grey eyes searching his, her palm against his scruffy beard. She was ready to go out on the limb and she hoped she could coax him out there with her. "House, have you considered that all of that sadness compounded might have triggered or contributed to depression?"

He nodded so quickly and briefly that had she not had her hand on his face she might have missed it.

"Have you told your psychiatrist this?"

He turned away from her intense, concerned gaze. She let her hand fall to his shoulder.

"It has come up," he said.

"It's come up?"

"My shrink thinks I should be on antidepressants."

"Maybe she's right," Cuddy said. "Hey, look at me," she said putting her index finger under his scraggly bearded chin so he would face her again. "House, if you know you are depressed why are you not taking an antidepressant?"

His blue eyes brimmed with tears again. "Because," he said very softly in an almost child-like tone, "I should be sad."

She frowned, her eyes shimmering with tears, and asked, "Why? Why do you think that?"

He shrugged. "I don't know." It was a cop-out. He knew the answer to that question and she knew it. Was he lying to protect her or to protect himself?

Now that she had him out on that limb she felt obligated to stay there with him until he was safely on two feet on the ground. "House, talk to me."

He looked down at this feet. This wasn't Cuddy, his boss. This was Lisa Cuddy, the warm and caring woman his addled mind latched onto in its desperation to create stability when he had nearly completely gone off the deep end. Except this time she was there in flesh and blood, not in a figment of his imagination.

"I didn't see it..." he started quietly. He glanced up at her quickly and looked away, not trusting himself to keep it under control.

She closed her eyes. A single tear streaked down her face. She knew what he was talking about, but asked anyway, "Didn't see what?"

"Kutner..." he hadn't intended for it to come out in a sob, but it was as if a dam had broken. Once he said it he couldn't take it back and he couldn't stop.

He turned his back to her, his chest heaving in uncontrollable sobs. He leaned forward covering his face with his hands, but could not compose himself. This was everything he claimed not to have felt after Kutner killed himself and it flooded out all at once.

Cuddy repositioned herself closer to him, reached out and gently rubbed his back. It was the only comfort she thought she could give him as there were no words to adequately express her empathy for his sorrow.

He did not move away from her. Though he still could not admit it to her, he had actually longed for her just to be there for him as someone who understood and honestly cared about him. He allowed himself to feel relief not to be alone in that moment.

When his breathing again became more normal she slid back to face the piano, but kept her hand on his back. He followed her lead, facing the piano, and clutched the edge of the bench with his hands, head down.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked softly.

Fresh tears rose and dripped down his nose. "No," was all he could manage in response.

"OK," she said and continued to rub his back. Minutes passed and she said nothing. She thought it would be easier for him to lead down this path.

"I..." he started and took a shuddering deep breath, blowing it out between pursed lips. "I should have seen something. I should have realized..."

She continued to say nothing. She wanted him to let it out and she was afraid that if she said anything it would set them up for their usual pattern of banter and bicker. She kept her hand in steady motion across his back.

"I pushed him too hard. I knew he was alone. I thought..." his voice cracked. Logically he knew that it wasn't his fault, but still... someone known for brilliant observation of subtle clues completely missed that his employee, his mentee, the one most like himself... was somehow so far off the edge that he took his own life.

She could feel him shaking in his effort to not to lose control again. When he didn't resume she began, "No one knew. Taub didn't know and they were close. His parents didn't know. Even his girlfriend didn't know, House. "

"I should have known," he insisted.

"Why should you have known when no one else did?" What was this, some kind of God complex? Wilson always implied that House flew a bit close to the sun with his wax wings...

"Because," he started with a gasp, "...because I've been there, on that ledge, in so much..." he choked back a sob, "...in so much pain... just wanting it to end" He could not believe that he just admitted to Cuddy that he had ever considered killing himself.

It was almost too much for her to bear, but not a complete shock. When Wilson angrily told her that House had OD'd on the patient's pills two years before she suspected that the overdose might not have been entirely accidental. But, she also knew that he had been in agonizing pain from withdrawal and before she could come up with a plan to force him into rehab or counseling the court took care of it for her.

"That doesn't make you any more responsible for Kutner's death than anyone else in his life." She stopped rubbing his back and slid her hand down his arm to his hand, lacing her fingers over his as he clutched the bench. Squeezing his hand firmly she asked, "Have you talked to your psychiatrist about this, about Kutner?"

He shook his head. This did not surprise her. "I think you should."

He nodded. He put his left hand over hers as she clutched his right. He shrugged and wiped a few remaining tears onto the shoulder of his shirt.

She leaned forward slightly, resting her right cheek on her right hand, and looked at his face. His eyes were red, teary and puffy from so much crying. He looked aged, almost haunted, from the physical and emotional pain of the past year.

He regarded her openly caring expression as she studied him. Suddenly he sat up straighter, pulled her left hand to his chest, and held it over his heart with both of his own. "Thank you," he whispered.

She slid her hand from under his and reached up to touch his face. Something in that instant stirred the memory of the kiss they shared on the day she lost Joy, and as her palm cradled his scruffy face and she looked into his sad, liquid blue eyes she got up without removing her hand from his face, leaned towards him as he looked up curiously. She closed her eyes and tenderly kissed him. He closed his eyes, reached up to her face, his hand caught in the tumble of her curls, returned the kiss and cherished the moment, her soft hand, her delicate lips, her passionate affection.


	33. Chapter 33

House and Cuddy separated from the kiss slowly. He stood up from the piano bench towering over her, and steadied himself on her shoulders. She was stronger than she looked in every way.

"I should probably head back to New Jersey," she said wistfully.

"Yeah," he said softly. "And my shrink is probably looking for me."

"Talk to her about Kutner and please think about taking an antidepressant, OK?"

He nodded. She put her arms around him in a reassuring hug. "My cane..." he whispered at the top of her head. She backed up and looked down to find the cane near their feet, bent down and picked it up handing it to him.

"Thanks," he said. She smiled warmly in return, her grey eyes sparkling. They walked together down the stairs from the stage and she retrieved her coat and purse from the seat in the front row. He walked ahead of her and held the door for her. They said nothing as they rode the elevator back up to the rehab ward, but it was a comfortable silence.

Back at PPTH things were not going well for diagnostic team's patient. He was not responding well to the powerful antifungal drug and there was evidence that it was having a negative effect on his renal function.

"Dr. Hadley," the nurse in CJ Asker's room whispered trying not to awaken the patient who had finally collapsed into fitful sleep a few minutes before she entered the room. "He has almost no urine output." Hadley looked at the Foley bag attached to the side of the bed and reviewed the nurses' notes. She wrote instructions in the patient's chart and notified the nursing staff to discontinue the Amphotericn B. She did not care if Eric was sure it was histoplasmosis. She wasn't going to put the patient through more of this hell for his intuition.

Back in the diagnostics conference room Taub sat at the table reviewing lab results for several clinic patients he had seen earlier in the day. Two teenagers with mono, one middle age school teacher with strep throat and an elderly man with vitamin B deficiency. Boring, boring, boring. Still, he didn't look up when Hadley entered the room. Pretending to be engrossed in the patient files in front of him was better than getting in the middle of whatever was going on between Foreman and Hadley.

Foreman pushed the glass door to the conference room hard enough for it to shudder on its hinges. Taub looked up and glanced quickly at Hadley before burying his nose back into his paperwork. He knew from the resolute look on her face what she must have done.

"You stopped the Amphotericin B?" Foreman asked Hadley, although he obviously knew the answer. Standing several feet away from her with his arms crossed in front of his chest he clearly expected an explanation.

"The patient has decreased renal function. I'm running urinalysis to be sure that the drug you ordered isn't destroying his kidneys. In the meantime I think it's prudent to discontinue the treatment for a condition for which so far there is no evidence." Her green eyes sparkled with undisguised resentment for his condescending attitude. "Perhaps," she added for good measure, "we could take this up with Cuddy."

Before Foreman could respond all three of their pagers started bleating. Taub was the first out the door.

Coughlin watched House step off the elevator and wave to Cuddy who stayed in the elevator car. He stayed in the hallway leaning on his cane several minutes after the doors closed. When he pivoted to return to the ward he saw Coughlin watching him. When their eyes met she tipped her head towards her office door. He knew he couldn't avoid her and nodded.

House sat on the sofa, leaning his cane against the arm next to him. He felt oddly relaxed in her tiny office with its delicate wintergreen fragrance. Although he hadn't seen his reflection since returning from the auditorium he knew it was apparent that his meeting with Cuddy had been an emotional one.

"So..." Coughlin started as she sat across from him in one of the arm chairs.

House inhaled deeply and exhaled loudly. "So..."

"Did you play the piano?"

He should have known that her generous offer to let him go to the auditorium with Cuddy was one of her shrink manipulations. He nodded.

"How did you feel?"

He still really hated the question, but he was too exhausted to avoid answering. "Sad."

Coughlin nodded. She said nothing. She wanted to give him time and space even though she doubted he was ready to go further. Much to her surprise he looked directly into her eyes and continued.

"When I didn't hire Amber for a position I was only supposed to hire two new staff members," he began. "But, I couldn't decide which two. Eventually Cuddy agreed to allow me to hire three. I hired Chris Taub, a philandering former plastic surgeon who had to give up his very successful career to hide his infidelity from his wife;" Coughlin raised an eyebrow and he continued. "and Thirteen, a gorgeous and brilliant enigma who has Huntington's disease..."

"Thirteen?" Coughlin interrupted.

"A nickname for Remy Hadley" he responded somewhat dismissively. Coughlin knew there was more to that story, but also knew that this conversation was going somewhere and it wasn't about Remy Hadley.

"...so there were three?" she asked and noted his hand move reflexively to his right leg before he continued.

"There were three. Laurence Kutner was the third." He stopped and looked down, breaking his intense, direct gaze. Coughlin's office suddenly felt significantly smaller.

After a few moments Coughlin leaned forward and said, "Was?"

House rubbed his left hand over his face and up through his short graying hair. He looked intently into Coughlin's dark eyes. "He killed himself last month." He paused before adding, "Shot himself in the head."

Coughlin was shocked, but her professionalism allowed her to disguise her own reaction to the news. So, his guilt and sadness was not about Amber Volakis alone.

House was grateful when someone knocked softly on Coughlin's door before she could prod him to continue. He started to grab his cane as she glanced at her watch, but she motioned for him to stay seated as she went to the door. She stepped out and closed the door behind herself. He could hear her talking to someone, but couldn't discern what was being said.

House felt drained. He closed his eyes. When he opened them again Kutner was sitting across from him in the chair Coughlin had just vacated.

"So, is this goodbye?" House asked clutching the crook of his cane.

"Do you want it to be?" Kutner slouched in the chair and put his feet up on the coffee table.

Before he could answer the office door opened again. House looked up to see Coughlin stepping back into the room. He watched her walk over and sit in the empty chair.


	34. Chapter 34

In the Mayfield parking lot Cuddy sat in the driver's seat of her car watching the misty rain drops pool and drizzle down the windshield. At once she felt disconcerted by House's sadness and depression, and hopeful that he would leave Mayfield in less pain in every regard. She also felt a pang of guilt for having given in to the urge to kiss him, and yet... Her thoughts were interrupted by her cell phone ringing. She glanced at the caller ID and saw a PPTH extension number.

"This is Dr. Cuddy," she answered.

On the other end Max Williams, a nurse in the intensive care unit, gave Cuddy an update on the diagnostics team's patient. She had asked Max to keep her apprised of the patient's condition after she had seen how violently ill he was.

"I'll be there as soon as I can." She looked at her watch, and back at the old stone hospital where her most gifted diagnostician was a patient. She really hoped that together Foreman, Taub and Hadley would do for CJ Asker what she knew House could.

Taub, Hadley and Foreman had arrived in their patient's room to find him curled into the fetal position screaming. The somewhat distressed nurse at the bedside reported that his temperature was 105 and that he his next dose of ibuprofen was not due for another 30 minutes.

"Ten milligrams of morphine," Foreman shouted to the nurse over the patient's screams.

Hadley and Taub pulled back the bedclothes so that they could examine the patient and were horrified to find huge, bruising, knot-like welts from the patient's knees to his ankles. As the nurse administered the morphine CJ stopped screaming and they were able to reposition him on the bed so that they could examine him.

The patient continued to moan from pain, but at least he wasn't screaming. Taub and Foreman examined the welts on the patient's legs, and Hadley flipped through the patient's chart reading the nurses' notes.

"CJ," Hadley addressed the patient. "Can you tell us where you are currently experiencing pain?"

"Oh, God," he moaned. "When I move my legs," he panted.

"These look like some kind of contusions. Did you fall?" Taub asked.

The patient shook his head. "No," he gasped. "My stomach. It hurts... I think I have to..."

Suddenly the patient sat up, then lost consciousness and slumped forward. The three doctors repositioned him again, checking his vital signs, and were startled to see a pool of blood under him on the sheet.

Coughlin returned to her seat across from House. She knew he really wanted to leave, but she wasn't letting him off the hook.

"Sorry about that," she apologized.

"No problem," House held his cane loosely in his right hand. He bit his lower lip pensively and shifted the cane to his left hand. "Cuddy thinks I should talk to you about Kutner." It was almost a question.

"Do you want to?" her tone was calm and gave him no indication whether she had an opinion one way or the other whether he should talk about Kutner.

He shifted the cane back to his right hand and leaned forward. "I should have known..." he stopped.

After several minutes she asked, "That he was suicidal?"

He nodded. "His parents were killed in an armed robbery to which he was a witness. Traumatic childhood..."

"Not everyone who experiences childhood trauma becomes suicidal," Coughlin suspected that House's own childhood, while probably not as dramatically horrifying in one instant as Kutner's was likely to have been, was probably not even close to idyllic.

"Yes, I know that," he said somewhat exasperated.

"OK, then why should you have known that Kutner was suicidal?"

He clutched the cane more tightly. "Because I should have seen something. I should have noticed _something_." He leaned back and looked up at the ceiling tiles before closing his eyes.

Pushing him to tell her why he should have known that Kutner was suicidal was obviously not the right tact, so she switched gears. "And, what if you did see something? What if you did notice something...?"

"I think you can figure out the answer to those questions," he said while continuing to look up at the ceiling.

Coughlin raised an eyebrow at House, saying nothing.

"OK, you want me to say it? If I had known I could have saved him." He looked at her with piercing intensity before adding: "And now you are going to tell me that it is normal to feel this way."

"Is that what you want me to tell you?"

That was not the question House expected, which left him speechless.

Coughlin continued, "It is normal. But, beating yourself up so badly that you incapacitate yourself, that's not."

House looked away from Coughlin again. "OK, now I have to cut to the chase," she said. "You know that if you don't comply with your treatment plan you can't stay here, and I think you should be here. I'm prescribing an antidepressant for you. An SSRI is not going to change who you are. It's also not a magical cure-all. You still have to do the work you've been doing. It will just make it a little bit easier for you to do it. Give yourself a break, House."

"OK," he said quietly with almost no hesitation.

It was Coughlin's turn to be surprised. "OK?"

He nodded. "Yeah."

"OK, good. I really don't think you'll regret it." She glanced at her watch. "And, I'm sorry to say I have a meeting, so time's up."


End file.
